Into the Fire
by Sendai
Summary: Sequel to My Apologies. Adventure &romance continue. John and Sherlock try to overcome the Russian mafia and the CIA while seeking the weapons hidden by John's ex-commander, Col. Moran. John receives unexpected and sometimes inexplicable help from the other side. Rated M for violence, language and eventually M/M sex. Now posting Chapter 11 :D
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **This is a sequel to, My Apologies. In other words, this fic might be hard to follow if you don't read My Apologies first.

**Warnings** this fic is rated **M** for violence, sexual situations, frequent swearing and other adult themes that I might decide to cram into it. Disclaimers are at the end of each chapter stating the obvious (ie I don't own rights to Sherlock, yada, yada, yada.)

**OK, so ****In To the Fire,**** Chapter 1**(spoiler alert if you are toying with the idea of reading My Apologies.)

And sorry it took so long to post the first chapter. I shall refrain from excuses.

So anyway, lets start with a quick reminder of where we left our heroes (naturally we left them hanging off the edge of a metaphorical cliff).

So, John is in the clutches of the dastardly Dimitri and his horrible henchmen, including the vicious Victor Trevor. Sherlock is determined to find his kidnapped blogger with the assistance of two CIA agents named Mitchell and Mary Morstan, two handlers (none other than Greg Lestrade-handler extraordinaire and Irene Adler-the femme fatale) and John's friend/protégé, Ahsan Guhlam (because even a sidekick deserves a sidekick).

Ok, now we can start (Finally)

**Into the Fire**

** Chapter 1**

In the sky to the east, the first fingers of indigo and lavender stained the dawn sky. Out to the west, a few scattered stars, like stalwart soldiers, refused to surrender to the onslaught of day.

From deep with in his Mind Fortress, John admired the celestial changing of the guard. He dearly wished that he could write down this metaphor in his notebook because it was clearly one of his best, and he was sure to forget it. His novel of the century might never be written now, and it was all the fault of those bloody Russian mobsters and of course that bloody bastard, Vicky.

John tried to ignore the fact that he had once again been kidnapped. He tried to avoid the possibility that Sherlock was in danger or worse. NO, NO, NO! Forget worse. Worse cannot happen. John tried to delete the horrid thought.

He let his body run on autopilot and tried, without much success, to also delete the random blows from his captors. And what exactly was the point hitting him right now? Idiots, maybe they would accidentally kill him and thwart the evil plans of the Russian mob boss. Somehow, John was not cheered by this possibility.

The black Cadillac Escalade rolled into the hanger, narrowly avoiding packing crates. These idiots can't even drive properly, thought the army doctor.

John's captors quickly hustled him out of the car, through the hanger and out the back onto the tarmac. They dragged him onto a private jet, whose engines were already running.

Big and Ugly (not to be confused with his even larger cohort, Big and Bald) shoved the army doctor into a seat and handcuffed his wrist to the armrest. John was getting tired of all the dragging and shoving. He was very, very tired of everyone handcuffing him.

Victor, gloating, leaned over his helpless captive. Victor's lank, dark hair hung over his forehead, "Well Johnny, do you think Sherlock will miss you? Do you think he'll even notice that you're gone?"

John glared up at his captor from under his lowered brows. Just let him get close; just let him get in range. John's hands closed into fists

"Well, since Sherlock isn't here, perhaps I can avail myself of your rather limited charms," said Victor, leaning closer.

John was horrified; surely, he had misunderstood. Surely that twat wouldn't…

Victor grabbed John's jaw roughly and began kissing him. For several revolting seconds, John was too shocked to react. Then he realized that he was minimally restrained, and Vicky _was within range_.

Grinning inwardly, John pushed forward and deepened the kiss. Moaning Vicky let go of the doctor's face to let his hand search for John's groin. With his head released from Vicky's grasp, John reared back and banged his forehead down hard, smashing Victor's nose.

Victor gave a piercing scream, and John rammed his head into Victor's face a second time. Victor fell on to the floor as blood poured from his nose. John kicked the fallen man who crawled out of reach, whimpering like a baby.

Yes, John's head hurt a lot now, but watching Vicky squirm in his own blood was worth any sacrifice. John leaned back in his seat, smiling.

Big 'n Bad stormed back into the cabin. He cuffed John above his ear and punched him in the ribs for good measure. Then the huge man pulled the lanky, writhing figure off the floor and pushed him into a seat with a wad of paper towels to stem the flow of blood.

The army doctor looked out the window to see that the jet was already speeding down the runway for takeoff. His ribs ached along with his head now, and he could feel a small trickle of blood from the new cut on his temple. It was all worth it to watch the bloody bastard blubber like a baby, he thought.

John once again regretted his lack of a notebook after coming up with such a stunning alliteration. He would need to acquire a fourth notebook now, assuming he could get out of this mess alive.

Still, John was cheered by his temporary victory. He retreated back into his Mind Fortress and tried to memorize his newest alliterative phrase, yeah 'bloody bastard blubbered like a baby', pure poetry.

The sun rose up and shone through the right hand windows, so the soldier guessed that they were headed north. The two Bigs (John was tired of repeating their nicknames) played cards and muttered to each other, presumably in Russian. Periodically they would pause to glare at John or Vicky. It seemed that the blubbering bastard was not particularly popular with the hired muscle.

After a while, contemplating his poetry became tedious, even annoying. John decided that it really wasn't very good anyway, as Sherlock had pointed out on several occasions.

Instead, John spent his time worrying about where they were taking him, and, even more importantly, he worried about Sherlock. Where was the consulting detective? Was he still at that police station? Did Mycroft get John's message, and would he able to help Sherlock? What about Ahsan? What happened to him?

Unlike Sherlock, John had no way to magically gauge the passage of time. He guessed that it was only an hour or two later when they landed, and John was quickly transferred to a slightly larger, more lavish jet. As before, this aircraft took off immediately after the kidnapped doctor was forced on board.

Once they were cruising (still heading north), a new large man (well, not as large as Big and Ugly, but a lot larger than the blond army doctor) ducked out of a door into the back of the jet.

"For God's sake! Clean them both up. I do not want blood on my carpets," ordered the new man. Clearly this man, with thinning black hair and dark, almost black, eyes was the man in charge, the criminal CO. John deduced that this was the elusive and much to be feared, Dimitri.

John's very bad day was probably going to get much worse. But for now, the new boss ignored John, and, grabbing a sheaf of papers from Big 'n Bald, he returned to his private cabin.

Paperwork? Good God, do mobsters have to do paperwork like everyone else? John pondered this rather mundane idea, as he watched the Bigs escort Vicky to the lavatory and roughly clean him up. After some loud and frankly embarrassing winging, the wrecked wretch limped back to his seat with raccoon-eye bruises, a split lip and a very swollen, deviated nose.

John was escorted forward next. With Big 'n Bald glowering down at him, John took off the purple shirt that he had borrowed from Sherlock. Using wet paper towels, John scrubbed his face, neck and arms as well as possible. He tried to rinse the blood and sweat out of his hair in the tiny sink.

With his hands temporarily freed he checked his ribs (just bruised, not broken). The two cuts on his cheek and temple would heal up even without stitches. The doctor was also developing a nice shiner, but it was not nearly as spectacular as Vicky's double set of black eyes, the blond thought smugly.

John suffered the indignity of using the loo with a towering cretin standing guard. John put his, or rather Sherlock's, purple shirt back on and returned to the main cabin.

The Bigs sat him in a chair opposite their leader. John was handcuffed to the table this time.

It must be **International Handcuff a Soldier** **Day**, thought John pursing his lips sourly. Pity no one told me it was coming up, I would have had Sherlock teach me his handcuff escape techniques. Oh, Sherlock. What if they have Sherlock? What if he's hurt or…

"Mr. Watson. It's so good hof you to join us," said the boss, who was about the same age as Lestrade, albeit a bit taller and heavier than the detective inspector. John now saw that dark hair of the mob boss was speckled with gray. His smile was full of teeth, like a shark. And about as inviting as a great white, too, thought the doctor.

"Well, it seems you know my name," said John his expression carefully neutral. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you are Mr. Dimitri?"

"Very good. I am glad you are not so stupid as most soldiers. I also haf hope that you are not too injured, at least for now," said Dimitri, leering.

John sighed and reminded himself that he was captured by the enemy. Give no aid or comfort to the enemy. Just give your name, rank and serial number. Christ, what are you thinking, you idiot, he scoffed at himself. It's not as though the Russian mafia will abide by the bloody Geneva Convention.

From deep inside his Mind Fortress, an imaginary Sherlock calmly whispered, 'Don't be an idiot then, John. Play the game. Talk to him. Buy time. Gather data. Stall. Play. The. Game."

Well, Sherlock was loads smarter than John. If he said 'play the game', then John would at least try to play.

"Yeah. Not too injured, Mr. Dimitri, but thanks for asking," said John forcing a fake smile onto his face. "Nice plane you have here. Must be a real pain to keep all this white upholstery clean, what with people coming in all covered in blood."

Dimitri laughed and slammed his fist on the table. "Yes. Very good. Very English. Show no fear and stiff upper lip," the man grinned. His eyes remained fixed on John, assessing and measuring his prisoner.

"Bring me the wodka and two glasses," ordered the Russian.

Dimitri had almost no Russian accent. He actually sounded more American than anything else. He really sounded like one of those bloody awful American businessmen, like J. R. Ewing. Maybe John should bring up football or baseball?

"So, Mr. Watson. A toast," said Dimitri, pouring generous amounts of vodka into each glass. "To a successful working relationship, yes?" He smiled his shark smile at his smaller prey.

"Sure, and to absent friends," said John, meeting Dimitri's gaze and sipping at the strong alcohol. They exchanged fake smiles and sincere glares until the glasses were empty.

John half expected to keel over from some hidden drug. Fortunately, drugs and poisons did not seem to be the Russian's style. Well, unfortunately, that still left a lot room for other forms of persuasion. John tried not to let his mind wander down those avenues.

"So, Mr. Watson. Shall we now discuss the location of Moran's hidden bases?" asked Dimitri, blandly.

"Well, I hardly think they qualify as bases, Mr. Dimitri," said John, cautiously. "They were more like caches or very little bunkers. Not really big at all."

"Yes. The careful, precise Englishman. Let us not worry about their size. Where. Are. They?" Dimitri's predatory smile did not reach his intent eyes.

"Well about that…You see Mr. Dimitri, once I tell you any thing about those caches, I am a traitor…Now hold on, let me finish," the Russian had started to flush red. Clearly, Dimitri was an impatient man.

"Now we're both men of the world, Mr. Dimitri," continued John, frantically trying to think like a consulting genius, trying to play the game. Remember that Dimitri is like an American businessman. Make him a deal. Yeah, a deal. "Look," continued John. "I think that you are planning to kill me when this is over. Now you know that I know so we can actually start negotiations."

"So. So, negotiations is it? More wodka is needed" said the Russian running his hand down along his jaw. "I will start the negotiations. I will say that I can make your life, ah, what is the word? Ah, yes, excruciating. I can certainly make your life excruciating, Mr. Watson."

Dimitri drew out the word excruciating. John struggled to remain calm and impassive. He smiled as he glared up from under his furrowed brow. John sipped his vodka. Best not to have much more alcohol on an empty stomach, he thought. The bastard's already getting me tipsy.

"Right. Well, I will point out that my memories of Afghanistan are not that strong. It has been quite a few years since I served with The Colonel. If you are planning to do something unpleasant to me, I should point out that trauma and brain injuries will be harmful to your plans. Just speaking as a doctor and former trauma surgeon, you know. In fact, I may already be suffering from a mild concussion, courtesy of your errand boy, Vicky." John and Dimitri both glanced over to the tall man who tried to huddle into his seat. John devoutly hoped that Vicky would receive some _excruciating_ punishment from his employer.

"Yes, he exceeded his instructions," said the Russian blandly; Vicky somehow paled even further. Then Dimitri turned his full attention back to the army doctor. "So you will continue, Mr. Watson. You mentioned negotiations. Negotiate."

"Look, if I can find those caches for you, maybe you could sorta not kill me? I'll be a wanted man, so it's not like I could ever go home. It's not like I'd be telling anyone about you." John tried to sound desperate and sincere. Well the desperate part was easy; John _was_ desperate.

"So yeah, I think, when this is over, that you should give me a fake ID and bit of money to tide me over. Not a lot of money. Just a couple thou and maybe a couple of guns. Then you should just leave me off, where my unique services could be appreciated. Someplace remote like, um, well Afghanistan would be fine." John gave the Russian his very, best, fake ingratiating smile. The kind he saved for psychopaths and Mycroft Holmes.

"Sure. No problem. Now tell me where," demanded the Russian.

"Right. Thank you, Mr. Dimitri. And I am not stupid, as you yourself have pointed out. I can see you are still planning to kill me. Well, fine. Maybe you'll change your mind later, when you see how helpful I am. Anyway, here's my line in the sand. I will not cooperate, until I know my friends are safe," said John, looking into the man's soulless eyes. John forced himself to swallow despite his growing fear.

"You think you will tell me what you will and will not do?" asked Dimitri quietly, playing with his empty glass. John stared at his thick fingers, so unlike Sherlock's. 'Idiot!' cried the imaginary Sherlock from his Mind Palace, 'Forget about my fingers, and try to concentrate.'

The Russian's fingers are short and fat. His nails are rough, chewed on. So he was what, nervous? He wasn't afraid of John Watson; that was certain. Afraid of the British Government or CIA? Not bloody likely.

Dimitri's eye twitched. Well, the man is nervous. He doesn't just want the cached found; he needs those weapons. Maybe he's made a promise to someone even more dangerous than himself. Well, that's not good.

Or maybe it is good. Good, bad…dammit, I don't know! Deducing is not supposed to be my job, whined John to himself. Right, man up, Watson; keep trying. Let's assume that Dimitri needs me, alive and cooperating. He needs me, so he'll have to compromise at least a little.

"You need those weapons, Mr. Dimitri. So you need me. And you need me in relatively good health and cooperating. I need to confirm the safety of my friends," said John pushing his advantage. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his free arm, making a fresh trail of blood on his cheek.

"Look, all I need is to make a few phone calls. Like you said, I'm not so stupid, I can coöperate, you know, once this is taken care of." John risked a small sip of his vodka. Maybe it will dull the pain if any thing excruciating happens, thought John anxiously.

"We will see, after we refuel. We will wait until afternoon, then we shall see," Dimitri rose quickly. He looked powerful and yet surprisingly graceful as he moved about the cabin.

The Russian rattled off orders, before he went back into his private cabin.

The Bigs shoved a bottle of water and couple of stale sandwiches at John. He tried to eat some of the ham and cheese sandwich but his appetite was severely curtailed by the display of electrical wires that Big and Ugly stretched out near John. Vicky's evident glee at the sight of the wires, foretold of excruciating times ahead. John at least forced down the water; after all, he might not get more for a while.

To stave off either boredom or a panic attack, the army Captain rummaged around in his Mind Fortress for a bit before he finally dozed off in his chair. He woke up when the Bigs clattered around the cabin. Evidently the jet was back on the ground.

John had no clue as to their location at first. It was cloudy with a fine rain coming down. The grey mists, obscured the distant hangers and terminals. There were dirty patches old leprous snow heaped near the buildings. The setting looked as dismal as John felt.

John peered out the window until Vicky came over and slapped him. With his uncuffed hand, John managed to punch Vicky hard enough to double him over. Big and Ugly stormed over and punched both of them in the stomachs. John was glad he hadn't eaten much when his gut began cramping from his punishment.

Big and Ugly also pulled down all of the cabin's window blinds. Nevertheless, John had seen plenty of airplanes with the Alaska Airlines logo. So, Alaska it is. Probably. Maybe.

The jet was taking off again, seemingly in under an hour. John idly wondered how many safety regs had been ignored in their rapid turn-around.

John was finally allowed to use the lavatory again. He washed his face and thanked Big and Bald politely. He even got another bottle of water to drink before he was cuffed back in his seat. His wrist was beginning to get raw and sore. Stupid handcuffs, he groused to himself.

John roamed for a while in his Mind Fortress. He spent a few minutes giving himself a pep talk and tried to prepare himself for the Russian's excruciating persuasion, just in case their negotiations fell apart.

John distinctly heard Sherlock's baritone voice demanding that he 'Stop focusing on the word 'excruciating, John. Play the game. Use your tiny mind, John; it's probably bigger than Dimitri's. Just stall and misdirect, John. You can trust me, John. I will come for you…'

From there, John tried to cheer himself up with false bravado and bad puns. Then John sorted through his memories of the World's Only Consulting Detective beginning with their bizarre meeting at St. Bart's, where the tall, pale, exotic-looking man in a very expensive hand tailored suit asked Mike Stamford for a phone, and John Watson sealed his own fate by volunteering his mobile phone.

John woke up dazed, briefly looking around for Sherlock. Then he noticed that Dimitri was back, grinning evilly. Yeah, just like a shark.

Big n' Ugly had pulled off John's shoes and socks. Vicky, with his own evil grin, attached wires to two of John's fingers. OK, not good, not good at all. Wires were attached to his foot. Well class, the potential circuit is now 's science demonstration is all ready. Definitely not good.

John prepared to hunker down in his Mind Fortress, but then, the Russian handed John a phone.

"So we try it out, Mr. Watson. I shall let you make your phone calls and see if your friends are Okey-doky, yes? Then you will gif me the directions to Moran's hideouts. Here's your rules. You don't tell my name. You don't tell your location. If you are very bad, then Vwicky gives you the electrical shocks." Dimitri sat down with a cup of coffee. "So, Mr. Watson, make your calls."

John licked his lips and tried Sherlock's most recent mobile phone number. Of course he was put into voice mail. He left an inane message, something like. 'Hi, this is John. Miss you. Have a nice day.'

Bloody hell. That Russian shark was grinning at him, and Vicky couldn't wait to shock him. John tried to steel his nerves. Right, lets try Ahsan. Once again, John was sent into voicemail, and he left another idiotic message.

He tried Mycroft and got another recording, "Hi Mycroft. John Watson here. Um, OK. So, how are you? I'm fine, well not really. Got a shocking story for you someday. Ha. Ha. Um. Bye."

Dear God was everyone dead or something horrible? Well, maybe they were all just at a big party…

In desperation, John tried Greg Lestrade next.

"Lestrade, here. Who is this?"barked the detective inspector.

John swallowed, overcome by the sound of a friendly voice, even if it barked at him. "Um, hi, Greg. This is John. Um, how's London?" John looked up at Dimitri, who nodded blandly.

"God help us, it's John!" Lestrade put his phone on speaker. And motioned frantically while whispering, "Go get Sherlock." Then he added louder, "John where are you? Are you OK? What…"

John interrupted, "Look Greg, I don't exactly have a lot of time here. Do'ya have any idea where Sherlock is? I need to find out if he's safe, um him and a friend of ours named Ahsan?"

"Here John, they're both here. They're safe," Relief flooded the army doctor, and he sagged into his seat. A new confidence bloomed in his Mind Fortress; Sherlock was safe it really didn't matter what Dimitri did now.

Lestrade continued, "Ahsan is right in front of me. And Sherlock, I'll get Sherlock. Where the hell are you?"

"Um, no. It's fine; it's all fine. But you're sure, really sure that you and everyone and um, Sherlock are safe?" asked John again, stuttering a bit.

"Yes! Now tell us where you are…" said Lestrade again.

"No, no, no!" yelled Sherlock, grabbing the phone from Lestrade, "Don't tell us anything, idiot! They'll hurt you."

John gasped at the sound of his best friend and lover. He simultaneously tried to instantaneously weigh the risks of answering Lestrade's question. If they tracked Dimitri's plane, could someone bring it down? If John was going to die anyway, he might as well try to bring the mobsters with him...

Dimitri must have seen something in John's eyes, because he reached across the table for the phone.

DO IT! Screamed his inner soldier, tried of the fear and anger and always being kidnapped and handcuffed and…

"We're in a Gulf Stream jet heading west, about two hours away from Alaska!" yelled John.

Vicky pushed the button to engage the electricity, and nothing happened, because John had already kicked the wires off of his foot. Big and Ugly grabbed the loose wires and tried to tape them to John's leg. Big n' Bald snatched unsuccessfully for the phone in John's hand, as did Dimitri who was shouting in Russian.

John shouted over Sherlock's protests, "Tail number starts N 43…Dimitri and Vicky…Oh hell," the wires were reconnected, and it hurt. "Bloody hell! Shoot down..umm…plane.. fuckin' shoot it!..ummmmMMM!" The phone dropped from his hand as the increased voltage coursed through his system. A scream finally ripped from his throat before Dimitri smashed the phone to pieces cutting off the signal.

* * *

A rough hand yanked John's head up and slowly pulled him out of his daze. The cup of water dashed in his face helped to wake him up.

"That was stupid, Mr. Watson. You haf disappointed me; you are just another stupid soldier," Dimitri waved his hand and the electricity coursed through John's body again. His muscles convulsed painfully. The agony continued even after the shock was over, as his muscles twitched and cramped. And his fingers burned; the cabin smelled like charred flesh. John fought off waves of nausea.

There must have been a good reason for him to have defied the Russian, but for the life of him, John couldn't remember it. The Russian was right; it was a stupid stunt.

John's head was pulled up again so that Dimitri the shark could overwhelm him with his malevolence. A small, sensible Dr. Watson strongly advised against repeating any further acts of defiance.

"We had a deal, Mr. Watson, you should not have tried to ask for help…" snarled the Russian.

"Oh no, Mr. Dimitri. I wasn't asking for help," said the soldier, ignoring his frantic, sensible, self. "I told them to shoot us down out of the sky. Not the same thing at all."

John tensed for another round of electricity, but Big and Ugly punched the side of his head instead. John desperately wrapped himself up in his futile bravado.

"Now you will tell us the location of Moran's weapons," demanded the angry Russian.

"Um, Give us sec. I'm think'n," explained an exhausted and confused John Watson. His mouth tasted like metal, like copper. He must have bit his tongue during the convulsions, thought John. Yeah, come to think of it, his tongue really hurt. A lot of things really hurt right now. His mind was wandering, probably a little brain trauma from all the stress and the hitting and the electrical shocks…

Belatedly, John realized that a meaty hand had gripped his jaw and shaken it, while Dimitri yelled at him, "…when I say so. And you will tell me everything or I will start shipping pieces of you back to your friends…"

Well, Sherlock might like that; he likes body parts, thought John in his mental fog, before he blacked out again.

John had no idea how long he was unconscious, but the jet was descending. Final destination, or just a stop to refuel? John swallowed uneasily; he really, really didn't want to vomit on himself.

Once the jet had landed, John could hear thumps and bumps as the aircraft was again refueled. While on the ground, the shades remained shut.

The Bigs stalked around the cabin like a pair of ugly hyenas. Vicky had curled up in his corner like an ugly spider. Like a big, ugly, black spider with horrid long skinny legs, thought John.

In no time, the jet was up in the air again, and John's favorite Russian mobster was back for round 2. Or was it round 3?

"I don't know why you are so determined that I will kill you, my friend," said Dimitri.

Oh, ho. Back to being friends are we. Maybe he thinks he can play good mobster/bad mobster all by himself. He must be another criminal maniac. Why do I always end up with psychopaths and maniacs? Don't they make plain old greedy but sane criminals anymore?

"Mr. Watson, it is stupid for you to be holding out on me. It is stupid not to answer me. And it is rude, you know this?" the Russian wore his toothy shark smile.

The BAMF tactic had been stupid. It got him shocked and hit and didn't really accomplish anything. Of course it was stupid, because it was my idea, thought John. "OK, OK," said John reverting back to Sherlock's 'play the game and stall for time' tactic-the good idea of course.

"You know, I'd like to give my considered medical opinion, with all due respect. The more you hurt me, especially with high voltage electricity and head injuries, the less I will remember. Not a threat, Mr. Dimitri, just a medical fact," said John hoarsely.

The Russian's face fell, he glared at his goons, and then fixated on the unshaved, raccoon eyed Victor Trevor. Dimitri slapped the former socialite across his face.

All the inner John Watsons cheered from the battlements of the Mind Fortress. Even the imaginary Sherlock joined in the huzzahs when Vicky got slapped down.

"Mr. Watson is correct. He speaks sense," said the crime boss. "He is of no use to me with damaged brain. He will help now, because I will give him thousands of American dollars when I receive the weapons I want. That is a deal."

"So my friend, now you will tell me the location of the weapons?" asked Dimitri, his large hand resting heavily on John's smaller hand. Incongruously, John noticed that Dimitri's hand was covered with dark hair. Dear God, just like a tarantula, John suppressed a shudder. Why does everyone remind him of spiders, for God's sake? Must be the brain trauma.

Dimitri seemed to be getting agitated again. Right. Show time, Captain Watson. "Right. So first, Moran was paranoid; this is an important point. Moran trusted no one. He never left trails or markers. I can't tell you exactly where anything is but...Now I'm asking you to listen for a minute, because I'm telling the truth…but I think I can remember my way to many of the caches. That was the plan we were going with, I mean when I was kidnapped by the CIA. Before I was kidnapped by you. See, I was going to lead Jones, the CIA bloke, to the caches in person. Now, I guess I will lead you there instead."

Vicky was taking notes as John spoke, but Dimitri looked less than pleased. In fact, he looked like he was ready to hurt a British Army soldier again. So much for being friends, it must be time for the Bad-mobster to come back.

"Look, I'll tell you the directions, but remember what I said before. The directions are vague, and there's no markers. So we had a camp near Tarinkot, off the Khas Uruzgan highway you know?" from their blank looks, no one did know. Good, they'll never know the truth from the lies. "And to get to the first cache, we had to trek into the Western hills for, oh I'd guess, six to eight hours. Well, then we stopped at a village. Well not a village, but more like a big compound with a few families, and the headman raised these really great brown and white goats. OK, it sounds stupid, I know, but you might need to know this since the village that's not really a village has no name. The headman had a name, Mostafa. But if he's dead, there'll be a new headman but you'll know if it's the right village by the goats. Just ask about the goats."

"Is this a joke, because I'm not laughing, my friend," said Dimitri.

"Nope. Not a joke. I'm dead serious. Poor choice of words," said John with a grimace. He had a sinking feeling that Sherlock's delaying tactic wasn't going to work. Hell, even the truth wasn't going to work. "So then you head northeast into the hills. You'll be looking for these rocks that I called 'The Guardian's of the West'. Like from the book… The Two Towers?"

John received blank looks. "Well maybe you saw the movie, you know with hobbits and wizards… and orcs?" John couldn't help glancing at the Bigs, they were very orc-like weren't they? Maybe they were really Uruk-hai? OK, my mind is wandering again; not good Watson.

Right, the Russian didn't look happy. Maybe John should try lying; except Sherlock always said that John was a terrible liar. So we stick to the truth, which will help them not at all really. And Dimitri is finally realizing it. The Russian was breathing hard and his face was turning red. His eyes were narrowing into evil slits.

"Right, you're clearly not into Lord of the Rings. Clearly not. So you look for these two big rocks and you head towards them and don't do that. No more shocks…I'm actually telling you… the truth…Bloody!…CHRIST" John was shocked into unconsciousness again.

**TBC**

**A/N **Reviews appreciated. Sorry for the bleak first chapter. Next one will be Sherlock's POV, and I hope to have it up next week. I mangled enough foreign languages in my last fic so I decided not to try to fake some Russian. It would be too embarrassing. :$

**Disclaimer**-I do not own the rights to Sherlock, John Watson or any characters from SHEROCK the BBC show or the books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.


	2. Chapter 2

Into the Fire

Rated M

Chapter 2

Sherlock rapidly scanned the data, and the data clearly showed that the Russian had traveled to Bangkok nearly fifteen times in the past few years. Dimitri often stayed in Bangkok for weeks at a time. Obviously, the capital city of Thailand served as Dimitri's base of operations for Asia.

What was not obvious was how the so called experts and spies had failed to observe this fact for years. Even Mycroft's minions had not been able to deduce this, while the consulting detective had managed to create a virtual map of the Russian's movements in only one day. Idiots, the world is populated by idiots. Dull and disappointing, thought Sherlock.

The World's only Consulting Detective held his hands in front of his pale face. The stress of the last two days showed in the dark, circles under his eyes. Even his tailored suit was slightly rumpled.

The data also revealed that the Russian managed arms shipments, drugs and even human trafficking from his base in Bangkok. The Russian owned several properties in the populous Thai city. Sherlock was certain that one of these properties would be Dimitri's secret hideout.

It could end up being a simple matter of elimination, but Sherlock strongly suspected the Hibiscus Hotel. It was moderately expensive so could cater to the Russian's needs, yet the hotel was in a somewhat run-down part of the city allowing Dimitri to move about with less interference from the authorities.

The Woman, wearing a tight-fitting red dress, leaned over his shoulder and scanned the data on the computer screen.

"So, Dimitri likes to visit Bangkok," she said with a smile on her perfectly painted lips. "Do you suppose he goes there for business only? I imagine he also enjoys the nightlife there. I would look for him first at the Hibiscus Hotel; reputedly, it provides exotic entertainments for those who can afford it."

Sherlock spared her a nod of approval. At least The Woman wasn't an idiot.

"Sherlock, if we are going to Bangkok, I know a marvelous little restaurant. Quiet, discreet…we could have, well, dinner?" She let her fingertips trail lightly beneath his collar. Her musky perfume oddly reminded him of John.

She leaned in closer, her lips trailing along Sherlock's ear. Sherlock wasn't oblivious to The Woman's advances. He turned slightly to examine her more closely. Her cheeks flushed when he focused his full attention on her.

The genius hummed noncommittally. Her eyes dilated with desire. Why? She had not seen Sherlock Holmes for nearly four years. Granted, he was a rare intellectual challenge for her, but that did not explain her clear arousal. It was curious.

Irene's blood-red lips parted and she exhaled softly, her warm breath caressing his skin and raising goose-flesh along his arms. His own response was curious.

"I don't see how you get Bangkok from all those numbers," said Mitchell his tall, muscular form loomed over the researchers. Irene straightened slowly, not at all embarrassed. Her hand rested loosely on the detective's shoulder.

Sherlock sighed. Mitchell, like most law enforcement officers, showed limited imagination. Of course, he did not divine the truth hidden in the data. Of course, no one on the aircraft could deduce even the obvious. The Woman was the only one who used her brain. Only she could hold Sherlock's interest.

"Nevertheless, Mitchell, she's correct," stated the consulting detective condescendingly. "If you bothered to study the numbers…"

"Nope. That's your job," said the handsome CIA agent pleasantly. Although he smiled, his dark eyes studied the pair in front of him. "Apparently your job is to think. My job is to make sure the mission runs smoothly and make sure you don't get killed while you're thinking." Mitchell turned to the perfectly coiffed dominatrix as she leaned against Sherlock. "So Ms. Adler, is this a general dinner invitation or is it just you and the detective?" he teased.

"Mr. Mitchell, I don't imagine that we'd have much to discuss, now would we?" she said archly, as she raised her perfect eyebrow.

"You underestimate me, Ms. Adler. We could discuss Fernando Alvarez and why he might have decided to jump off a building, right before he was to testify before the ICC," suggested Mitchell. His smiled widened as she began to frown. "Or we could chat about a member of the Saudi government who was forced to resign 11 months ago, three hours after you left the country. Actually, I can think of lots of things we could discuss, but never mind, you go right ahead and make your plans with our consulting detective; just as long as it doesn't interfere with the reacquisition of our asset."

"Like you said yourself, Mitchell, leave the thinking to us," said The Woman smoothly.

"Actually, I suggested that I'd leave the thinking to Mr. Holmes," said Mitchell. "The good news is that, in between those hot glances and pouting lip exchanges, you two found us a possible destination for Dimitri and John Watson."

Sherlock glowered. Yes, that was what almost everyone on board the plane wanted. They wanted to _ reacquire_ their _asset_, namely John Watson. Everyone wanted _his_ doctor in order to find the weapons, in order to help their government, or even in order to make a profit. Sherlock had to restrain himself from snarling in frustration. His blogger was not just an asset, and Sherlock's failure to protect his blogger was galling.

Mitchell, while not a genius had a point. The Woman was very blatant in her attempts to garner Sherlock's attention. What could be her motivation this time? The tall, pale detective assumed his thinking pose, fingers steepled in front of his face.

Mitchell back to the rest of the jet's cabin, "Mary, let's send a coded message. Tell the senior Mr. Holmes that our resident geniuses are voting for Savamabhumi Airport, BKK for short. See what he thinks. I suggest bringing in the local police to surround…"

"No, no, no. They'll muck it all up," said the consulting detective, jarred out of his musings.

"Look, Holmes," said the senior CIA agent. "Assuming that you are right…

"I am always right," snapped the detective who glared at the CIA agent.

"Yeah and modest too. Ya know, I don't see how a nice guy like Watson puts up with you," muttered Agent Mitchell, then he continued in a louder voice. "What I wanted to say is, if he's headed to Bangkok, Dimitri will arrive at the airport way ahead of us. If we don't stop him at the airport, we might lose him and Captain Watson altogether. That's why I think we should take the risk and apprehend the Russian now."

"The risk to John is too great," stated the consulting detective. "We can't even be certain that members of the Bangkok police force have not already been corrupted by the Russian. That may be exactly why is goes there so often, because he may have the support of the local law enforcement."

"That's all supposition, Mr. Holmes," said Mitchell.

"Supposition based on evidence," snapped Sherlock, drumming his fingers irritably on his arm rest. "Furthermore, even if the police are honest, Dimitri is not likely to surrender peacefully. There almost certainly would be violence, and John would be caught in the crossfire."

"Sherlock is right," said Irene. "Poor Dr. Watson is older and disabled. He is hardly able to function outside of the surgery. He would be a sitting duck in a firefight."

"Oh my God. Why do you say that about Captain John Watson?" demanded Ahsan.

"Well the man doesn't seem able to take care of himself," said The Woman stretching out her long legs and kicking off her stiletto heels. "He just falls into the hands of one kidnapper after another."

"Oh my God, you did not see John Watson turn the gun on the giant Russian in New York City where he saved himself and Sherlock Holmes too. You were not there when he attacked all those men at the gas station all by himself. He did the diversionary tactic and shot so many with just his one gun and led them away from me and Sherlock Holmes," said Ahsan fiercely.

"Of course John Watson isn't old," said Lestrade, running his hand through his greying hair. "Look, can we please get back on track. Those bastards have already started hurting John. I say we get him out anyway possible, as soon as possible."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Detective Inspector, you are so dramatic," said Irene. "What makes you think that Watson hasn't already told them everything he knows."

"Because he wouldn't tell them!" yelled Ahsan.

"My, my, you seem to be very defensive of the doctor," said the dominatrix with a smirk. "What have you and the doctor been getting up to? I mean you certainly haven't been following the man all over the North American Continent for sport."

"You you are the very worst, most very bad fatal femnine," sputtered Ahsan. "Of course I followed him and the Sherlock Holmes. Why would I drive a boring taxi when I can help fight international criminals with the famous detective and a war hero who shoots down the bad guys."

Ahsan threw himself back into his seat, glaring at Irene.

"Oh you're just jealous, Adler," said Mary Morstan. "You're mad because that _disabled_ army doctor is attractive. Anyway, Ahsan and I both agree with Holmes. There isn't time set up an ambush for Dimitri without risking his hostage. Frankly, I like John and don't want to see him hurt or killed. And don't forget, if he dies his information dies with him."

The two women glared daggers at one another. Lestrade paced up the aisle.

"Look, Sherlock, if you don't think we'll just lose John again, then I have to support your decision. If we can't fully trust the local police, then I suppose it would be dangerous to let them confront Dimitri," said the Detective Inspector.

"The odds will be far more favorable when we can get Dimitri on the ground and when we can manipulate him so that John is not in the crossfire," said Sherlock "In the meantime, we must get this pilot to fly faster so that we can catch up to John and his captors. Why can't you get him to fly faster?" demanded the consulting detective.

"Yes, I agree with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I especially agree that the pilot is not flying his fastest. I will discuss this now with him," said Ahsan.

"No one will disturb the pilot while she is flying," said Mitchell blocking the way. "I will not waste my time trying to teach you about wind resistance or fuel usage. You will just have to take my word that she is flying this jet properly."

" I might add," continued Mitchell, "Our pilot, Captain Emerson pilot is retired US Airforce and will cheerfully take down anyone who tries to cause a disturbance on her aircraft. You can thank me now for preventing your grievous bodily harm."

"Fine. Suit yourself. But I insist that you impress on your pilot that time is of the essence. I also insist that you keep the Thai police out of this; they are likely to be as unreliable as the London police," said Sherlock who threw himself into his seat and began typing rapidly on his laptop.

Lestrade and Mitchell moved forward talking in low tones. Ahsan stalked to the galley kitchen and returned with plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea. He tried to hand it over to the consulting detective.

"Ahsan, I do not eat when I'm on a case." said the thin, pale man, pushing the food aside.

"Oh yes, John Watson told me that you would say this," replied Ahsan. "I am to remind you that if you do not feed your body it will breakdown and you will end up in the horrible A and E, just like in Bristol."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head toward the younger Pakistani-American. Sherlock vividly remembered waking up in the A and E with IV's hooked up to him and with his fat brother peering down at him.

* * *

_"Sherlock, how nice to see you awake." his arch-enemy had said. "You are wondering what happened? You collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition, brother. You've been asleep for sixteen hours." Mycroft twirled his annoying umbrella and sneered at Sherlock._

_Sherlock had suppressed a growl. "John?" he had asked._

_"Oh, Dr. Watson spent the night here, but he had to leave this morning to help the Bristol police finish the case. Apparently, he and PC Jennifer Osborn chased the thief down. The Bristol police force is very impressed with your doctor. He should be back here soon, I imagine that he and PC Osborn are just finishing up their romantic dinner."_

_Bristol had been a debacle. He collapsed at a crime scene ruining some evidence. He was stranded at the hospital for a day, trapped in the A and E as no patient rooms were available. John had narrowly avoided death by strangulation and then captured the suspect, bravely rescuing PC Osborn in the process. Then his blogger had nearly been stolen by the lovely and grateful PC Osborn. It was a fiasco, all because his transport betrayed him over a lack of _sandwiches_. How pedestrian._

* * *

"Oh my God. Do you think that John Watson would not give me very good instructions on how to be a temporary assistant? He gave me many specially good instructions because I am one who is trusted." said the young man. "You must eat the whole sandwich unless you want to do the horrible Bristol A and E all over again."

Sherlock grabbed the cup of tea and sipped at it. Then he grudgingly bit into the tasteless sandwich. He shot a venomous look at Ahsan while he forced himself to chew. Ahsan watched for a moment, then returned to the galley followed by Mary Morstan.

It was beyond ridiculous that his blogger found it neccessary to harrass him about eating in absentia. Still John was more effective, even when kidnapped, than that fat Mycroft and his stupid handlers. Clever John, manipulating a genius this way, thought Sherlock. The genius ate the repulsive sandwich so that he would have the energy to rescue John and obliterate Dimitri and his pet Victor.

Irene came back over to Sherlock. "I know you find all of this very frustrating. These people are so petty and ordinary," she said, gently rubbing his shoulders. "You know that you can rely on me; I owe you my life, after all."

Her hands kneaded his stiff muscles and his treacherous transport relaxed into her massage. Sherlock stopped typing for a moment. His response to The Woman was indeed curious.

**A/N** Sorry for the short chapter. Next one should be up in only a couple of days (knock on wood).

Thank you for everyone who is reading my work. Extra thanks to my reviewers Wicked Winter, power0girl, InuChimera7410, SamuelIE8688, Cremains, booda77, ruvy91, darkhearted243, Quiet Time, and foxeeflame. Sharing your thoughts with me makes me happy, and I appreciate hints and constructive criticism, because they help me improve my writing.

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock or John or anything to do with BBC's SHERLOCK or the books by ACD-you get the picture. This fic is just meant to be fun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock stalked about the small room like a caged leopard, his dark curls flying on the turns. He glared menacingly at anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. For the most part, his handlers kept their distance by sitting in the hard plastic chairs pushed to the sides of the grubby, windowless room. They each hoped to avoid another verbal mauling from the incensed detective..

He finally came to a stop when Mitchell entered the room. "Well, have you spoken to your _contacts?"_ sneered the tall, pale man. "Have you received any information on this debacle? Have they identified any of the casualties? HAVE THEY FOUND JOHN!?"

"I can confirm that there was a gunfight and…" explained Agent Mitchell.

Sherlock lips pressed flat and he grabbed the lapels of Mitchell's wrinkled black suit. "A gun fight? Who authorized the attack!? And WHAT HAPPENED TO JOHN!?" demanded the furious detective. His were icy blue eyes were opened wide with rage in his now bloodless face.

DI Lestrade wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock, pinning the younger man's arms and pulling him off of Mitchell. "Just give him a chance to answer, Sherlock, yeah?"

Sherlock breathed through barely parted lips, glowering at the tall, black agent. He pulled himself roughly out of Lestrade's grasp, smoothing the front of his tailored suit.

Mitchell returned his glare."It seems that the police came to arrest Dimitri based on an anonymous tip," said Mitchell. He ground his right fist into his left hand, trying not to hit the infuriating detective. "This may come as a surprise to you, but some police activities have nothing to do with you, Mr. Holmes. They've had an outstanding warrant for Dimitri's arrest on drug charges. They did not expect him to have reinforcements from airport security, but he did. Anyway, it got out of hand, when one of Dimitri's men fired a shot."

"Right," said Lestrade, answering for the lanky genius. His grey eyes were focused on the consulting detective, ready for another outburst. "So what we really want to know is, where is John?"

"Well according to witnesses, John Watson doesn't seem to have been there at all. I saw the bodies and none of them are John, so that's good, right?" asked Mitchell; his muscles tensed, expecting another attack from the World's only Consulting Detective.

Sherlock did not make a move, although he wore his patented death glare. "None of the wounded men match Watson's description either," continued Mitchell, now talking to the more reasonable Detective Inspector. "You can look over the descriptions of the injured. They took a bunch to the hospital including several police officers, a Thai soldier, your friend Victor Trevor and one of Dimitri's bodyguards. There is a report that one of Dimitri's goons escaped by launching himself through the window and running out to the runways. A few minutes later, Dimitri apparently followed after his henchman by jumping through the window. Both men are still at large. No one reported seeing a short white guy with blond hair."

Sherlock had brought his hands up to his face, as if praying. "Describe the man who jumped through the window first," commanded the consulting detective.

"The descriptions are vague," said the former CIA agent. "Remember that bullets were flying all over; it was a madhouse. The best eyewitness stated that a tall, thin Caucasian man jumped through the window, shattering it. Another man, even taller and heavier, crashed through the window soon after. The witness later matched the second man with a picture of Dimitri."

Mitchell continued his report. "There is blood on the ground under the window, so they assume that at least one of the men is injured. The local police think the two men may have escaped together. They are searching the airport, including Dimitri's private jet now. So John is still missing. Actually, the man I spoke with thinks that either John was never here in Bangkok at all, or that he is actually working with Dimitri."

Ahsan and Lestrade began protesting at once. "No way!" shouted the formerly reasonable Detective Inspector. "You are so completely wrong, John Watson will not work with the criminals!" said Ahsan.

"Someone must arrange access to the CCTV tapes," said Sherlock coldly, cutting off further protests. "I wish to view Dimitri's entry into the terminal, and I certainly need to watch the footage of the confrontation before I can determine John's most likely location."

"Yeah, that sound's like a good idea," seconded Lestrade, running his hand through his hair distractedly. "Heck, we've already wasted enough time."

"Fine, Mary and I will try to talk to the police again. But they're very upset about the disastrous gun battle, and somehow they are blaming us," said Mitchell.

"Well, I'd like to come along too," said Irene with a smirk. "I happen to know the Chief of Police, and I know what he likes."

* * *

During the seemingly interminable delay, Sherlock verbally attacked every one of the team at least once more. Between the CIA agents and Irene Adler, they were all released and escorted to the airport waiting area that was the site of the gunfight between Dimitri and the Bangkok police.

The waiting area had already been meticulously cleaned; all evidence had been thoroughly destroyed. Someone had boarded up the broken window.

The consulting detective somehow remained calm, limiting himself to muttered imprecations about the general idiocy of local law enforcement and forensic specialists in general.

Next, he was escorted to the security office to review the CCTV footage. Sherlock remained composed with one finger over his mouth, but internally, he felt waves of disgust and fury when he recognized Victor Trevor walking down the concourse followed by Sherlock's crippled army doctor. John appeared dazed and confused as he stared blindly in front of him. He hobbled with a cane; his tiny hunched figure seemed to flinch repeatedly with pain or fear. Dimitri and two of his gigantic goons towered over the broken figure of John Watson. Four heavily armed men, dressed as airport security, proudly escorted the crime boss and his entourage down the long hall in the air terminal.

Just once, for a matter of seconds, John seemed to snap out of it, staring directly at the camera in sharp recognition. Then his face grimaced, before it went vacant again.

"Right. So the police don't think John was in Bangkok? Well that looks like John to me!" stated Lestrade angrily. "Christ, what the hell did that Russian do to him? Let me out of here; I need to talk with these so-called detectives." Greg Lestrade stormed out of the room.

The third set of images showed the actual confrontation. The silence of the films made the violence seem eerie and surreal. First, Trevor stopped abruptly and John crashed into him, cringing pitifully, like a beaten animal.

Sherlock stopped the tape ostensibly to examine some detail, but really he needed time to control his inner turmoil. Somehow John was already beaten into submission. John was clearly horribly injured. What if John was mentally impaired or emotionally damaged? That was almost worse than the thought of physical impairment. What if the damage was permanent?

How had the genius failed his blogger so badly? It was inconceivable. Sherlock tore at his hair in frustration.

Irene tried to pull his hands out of his hair, but he snatched his hands away. He began advancing the film, looking for any details that would help locate his blogger; he tried not to focus on John's clearly terrified visage or the possible injuries.

In less than two minutes, all hell broke loose. One of the Russian's corrupt security guards seemed to panic and began the shooting. The squad of policemen immediately returned fire. Dimitri's men all shot back in complete and unnerving silence. A huge bald man, a bodyguard for Dimitri, fell in the in the first minute with a bullet in his head. John dropped to the ground, but it was unclear whether he had been hit or whether he collapsed in fear. Dimitri grabbed Victor, using the tall socialite as a human shield. A dark stain appeared on Victor's shirt and his mouth worked in soundless screams.

Dimitri's gang was quickly pinned down on the floor with only chairs and benches for cover. John was barely visible on the ground crawling helplessly toward the fallen bodyguard.

Then suddenly, John got to his feet, with a handgun in his good hand. He no longer looked dazed. His lips were pressed flat, and his eyes scanned the room from under his heavily wrinkled brows. He crouched as he retreated backwards, away from Dimitri; but he no longer flinched in spite of the ongoing gun battle.

The Russian lunged at John, and the soldier swung his cane at Dimitri. The huge Russian grabbed the cane, and the doctor allowed himself to be drawn in close. John released the cane and suddenly swung his gun into his opponent's head. As the Russian sank down, John pistol-whipped Dimitri a second time.

"Oh my God, you see? He is not working with the stupid Russian. See he is fighting back! Hit him again, John Watson" yelled Ahsan.

"There, freeze the image!" shouted the detective. John had turned from the mêlée to kneel behind a bench and finally fired his gun.

"What's he shooting at? there isn't anyone there," said Morstan perplexed.

"He shot the window, not the Russian? Is he confused? Maybe he really is working with Dimitri now," said Mitchell.

"You are insane. Did you not just see their fighting?" demanded Ahsan.

"Ahsan, be quiet! Mitchell, you look but you do not observe. Play it back, even you can see John fighting and seriously injuring Dimitri. In fact, John quickly overcomes his larger opponent with his vicious attacks," said Sherlock with pride.

"Yeah but who is he shooting at. And what happened to his injuries? One minute he's at death's door and then he's John Rambo?" said Mitchell with a frown.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. He was surrounded by idiots. And who is John Rambo, anyway?

"Well of course he's really injured," pointed out Irene, smoothly. "Just take a look at his face, the cuts and bruises are real. Look at the bloody dressings on his hand. I would venture to guess, that Watson has cleverly exaggerated his injuries, possibly to prevent further physical torture. I didn't credit Dr. Watson with such creativity," said Irene, crowding in to lean on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Budge over Adler," said Mary pushing Irene out of the two women exchanged angry stares. "Holmes, Ahsan and I would like to see that clip again, please."

"Can't the boy speak for himself?" asked Irene irritably.

"Oh stuff it Irene Adler. The man can speak for himself, as you well know," said Morstan.

"And if you don't know to give Captain John Watson of the British Army his credit then you are stupid and not some super genius," said Ahsan his eyes fixed on the replay. "And besides the bruises and cuts on his face, Mr. Mitchell, John Watson limps when he jumps over the chairs. He is favoring his left leg. I think you are all mostly idiots to be thinking that he can't be injured if he fights. Captain John Watson fights even _with_ his injuries to escape because he is a hero and much better than a former CIA agent like you Mitchell, or a fancy lady of the evening, like..."

"Oh my, do you wish to play, little boy?" asked Irene.

"Claws in, Irene," said Sherlock. "We are here to analyze the visuals. Not attack each other." The consulting detective ignored the bitter looks he received for his blatant hypocrisy, "However, Ahsan's assessment is essentially correct in all important respects."

"Why Sherlock, you wound me," said the dominatrix forcing a smile.

"Hardly. Please remember that my goal is to find John as soon as possible. If you can't assist us, then leave," muttered the consulting detective. Replaying the tape again.

Irene tried to hide her pout.

"Slow the playback here; yep, that's what I thought I saw," said Mary. "Look how he's holding the gun and weighing it. I think that John just pulled that gun off of one of the casualties. He seems just a bit unfamiliar with it, and I bet he's uncertain how many rounds remain. And instead of just shooting Dimitri, he uses the gun's handle to strike the man down. He's saving any rounds for something more important than killing the Russian."

"Excellent observation," agreed Sherlock, giving her a rare nod of approval, "Given the blatant look of hatred on John's face as he strikes Dimitri not once but twice, I do not think he was attempting to spare the Russian. He clearly meant to disable or kill. I suspect John's injuries prevented him from using his full strength, which explains why Dimitri survives the attack."

"I do agree with Irene that John was exaggerating the extent of his injuries. He wanted them to lower their guard. When the gun fight erupted, he saw an opportunity for escape and then he acquired the gun," continued Sherlock, smugly. "As Morstan suggested, he saved the rounds to shatter the widow. He is intent on escaping, not exacting revenge. John leaps over the bench and nearly falls; his left leg is indeed compromised as noted by Ahsan."

Sherlock advanced the footage and continued his assessment. "Here John beats down a security guard with his gun. Do not misjudge him for this. Remember he is injured; he has probably been tortured; he can trust no one. I am sure his only thought is to escape. He may not even recognize that the man is in uniform. In this frame, we see John exiting the range of the camera because he jumps through the window breaking through the shattered glass. I am afraid that John will have multiple lacerations from the glass," said the consulting detective grimly.

Sherlock slowed the playback to point out Dimitri's escape. "Several minutes later we see, Dimitri following after John. His head wound, from John's attack, is obvious and bleeding heavily. He is stumbling and unsteady, clearly dazed or concussed even, and he deserts his loyal henchmen, who provide his cover. His henchmen are fools. Dimitri used them, abandoned them, and they are now in custody or dead. Perhaps Mitchell could do something useful and question them. I must examine the ground outside the window."

"The police have already searched the scene outside the window," said Lestrade leaning through the doorway and into the room. "You know, they are competent and even cooperative if you're not rude. Anyway, they liked me. In fact, several of the detectives are being very helpful. And they, at least, recognize that John was a hostage and not an accessory."

"Anyway," continued the detective inspector, "the police have already begun to analyze the evidence. They already know that the bloodstains outside the window belong to two different people, with blood types AB and O. Their theory is that the Russian mobster and his goon were picked up right outside the window after jumping out."

"You need to catch up, Lestrade," said Sherlock scathingly. "The tapes clearly show that it was John escaping from Dimitri, not a goon."

"Well, excuse me," said Greg Lestrade. "I was out of the room, Sherlock."

The tall, younger detective waved his hand dismissively at Lestrade.

"Oh whatever," said the detective inspector, squeezing his grey eyes shut momentarily. "Their Superintendent still believes that John was working with Dimitri. I told him that John working with Dimitri was bullcrap. Pardon my French, ladies."

"Detective Inspector, one of the women here is a CIA operative with extensive field experience embedded with armed forces deployed in Afghanistan. The other woman is a professional dominatrix. I sincerely doubt that either qualifies as a lady, and, indeed, I am quite sure that both of them have heard much worse than the word bullcrap."

Mary grinned widely, and Irene sneered at Lestrade.

"I shall only speak for myself, but Ms. Mary Morstan is most definitely a lady who just happens to also fight and be clever and so you can just watch what you say, Sherlock Holmes," stated Ahsan vehemently.

Irene rolled her eyes, "Oh my, isn't Ms. Morstan a bit too old for you, Mr. Guhlam?" asked Irene. "Though at least she is younger than Dr. Watson. Watson is fairly ancient with graying hair and wrinkles." Irene shuddered.

"You are a snake in the grass, Irene Adler. And you most certainly better watch out because John Watson shoots snakes, like that!" the young Pakistani-American snapped his fingers in her face.

"This pointless bickering is stupid and distracting. Those who feel that they must continue it, may go to a waiting room and wait, without bothering me. Now AB is an uncommon blood type," said the World's Only Consulting Detective coldly. "It also happens to be John's blood type. So we can assume John is injured and bleeding and may need assistance, not bickering. I shall now examine the scene outside of the terminal."

* * *

Police lights illuminated the scene outside the terminal. Broken glass littered the ground and fluorescent orange squares marked the many bloodstains. They had even labeled some AB and others O. The waiting area where the gunfight occurred was overhead, about a meter off of the ground.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, your new friends in the local police force are incredibly incompetent. A cursory examination shows that there are two separate blood trails. This blood trail, labeled AB and no doubt belonging to John, begins here and is smeared. This indicates that John fell after his leap through the window. I suppose his compromised leg failed, and then he rolled, smearing the blood. The trail straightens out and the small stains are close together. The close spatter of blood drops indicates that he was running. Then the trail suddenly ends. But where did John go from here?" muttered the tall man.

He had knelt down to touch one of the last spatters of John's blood. It was dry of course. He gazed out at the runways, with their blue, red and green lights. A jumbo jet was just taking off with a loud roar. A warm, humid breeze caught his dark curls and blew them into his eyes. The breeze stank of exhaust and asphalt. It may have been his imagination, but it also seemed to smell of blood, John's blood. The lanky detective swallowed to quell his sudden queasiness.

Sherlock's exhausted mind swirled with a litany of questions. How badly injured was John? John had to have bled freely to leave such a clear trail. Would he seek medical care? Doubtful. Knowing the stubborn doctor, he would try to treat himself. Where would John go to seek safety? Where could he go in a strange foreign city with no money and no passport? Maybe it was too much to ask, but couldn't John just call? Just pick up a phone and call?

The breeze now carried the scent of musk and orris root. The Woman, wearing her unusual and expensive perfume, knelt and trailed her hand along his arm. "The other trail leads to the hangers. Do you want to follow it yourself, or should I send Lestrade?" she asked. Her fingers brushed lightly over the top of his hand; his skin tingled at her touch.

"I will follow it myself, of course," he said standing. She slipped her hand into his. He tilted his head, briefly considering their clasped hands, then marched off to follow Dimitri's trail of blood.

"It is safe to presume that Dimitri left this trail. Note that it weaves about and the blood is smeared in several places, indicating stumbles or falls. The man is unsteady, possibly dizzy. He has not followed John. Perhaps John had already disappeared or perhaps Dimitri is too confused due to his injuries," stated the consulting detective.

"Maybe he's afraid of John Watson. I wouldn't want John Watson angry at me," muttered Ahsan.

The consulting detective studied the young Pakistani-American from the corner of his eyes. Then, Sherlock pulled his hand free of Irene's in order to study the back wall of the terminal with his pocket magnifier. "There is more blood, here, by the wall, and something…Yes, fibers, wool, from where Dimitri leaned against the wall. Ahsan I don't suppose you have a plastic bag?"

The young man pushed Irene aside to approach Sherlock with a baggie. "Yes of course, John Watson told me to have bags and gloves and disinfectant at all times. John Watson was very capable, and he trained me capably. He was also very loyal. _Very loyal_, unlike some people."

"He seems a bit overprotective, if you ask me," said The Woman.

"Nobody is asking you of your opinion of Captain John Watson," said Ahsan dismissively.

Sherlock put the fiber samples into the bag and handed it behind himself. Irene just looked at it blankly; Ahsan reached out to grab the bag that the detective shook impatiently.

"Thank you, Ahsan," said Sherlock without turning around. The detective continued his evaluation and his running discourse. "After the wall, the bloody trail has diminished substantially. Dimitri is suddenly bleeding less; he has no doubt applied an impromptu dressing or perhaps devised a tourniquet depending on his injury. Nonetheless, the trail continues on toward the private airplane hangers."

The detective strode away, with his entourage scurrying behind him. "The blood disappears in front of this hanger, where we also see the Gulf Stream with the tail sign beginning N43. Has this jet been inspected?"

"Yeah, of course it has," said Lestrade wearily. He rubbed his aching forehead with one hand. "It's also been impounded, and we might get a chance to inspect it tomorrow, assuming you don't piss off any one else."

"Well?" asked Sherlock tapping his foot impatiently.

"Well what?" demanded the exasperated detective inspector loudly.

"He means what did they find on the jet so far?" replied Irene. "Honestly, I was given to understand that you were the best the Yard had to offer. I shudder to think what the worst might entail."

Lestrade glared at The Woman with narrowed eyes, stifling his urge to retaliate.

"The detectives told me that they found more blood stains on the jet. One is type O but not a match for the blood found out on the tarmac. There is also type AB blood that matches the blood found outside the terminal, so I guess that its John's blood again. They did not find any contraband on the jet so they may have trouble holding the jet for very long except…" Lestrade frowned and chewed nervously at a broken nail.

"And what else did they find? There is something else, something that you don't wish to reveal," said the consulting detective looking askance at the DI.

"They found electrodes and some bloody tape, said Lestrade, "they assume that the electrodes may have be used for persuasion…"

"Used for torture, don't mince words, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock seemingly unaffected.

"Since I must wait until morning to board the jet, and since I see nothing else of interest in this hanger, I shall return to John's trail," announced the tall, pale man. Irene floated over and slid her arm through Sherlock's arm.

"Wait! What happened to Dimitri?" demanded Lestrade.

"He found an ally or a waiting car or hijacked a vehicle and escaped, obviously," said Sherlock who strode rapidly across the deserted tarmac, back to the scene under the shattered windows. "Don't you use your grey matter at all?" huffed the tall man, whose arm was still clutched by Irene.

"Well, John Watson must have had someone meet him there behind the terminal," said Irene. "It is encouraging to realize that he must also have allies here. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't manage to meet up with another old girlfriend."

"Your conjectures are creative but completely unfounded. There was no time for John to contact an ally. Disappointing." Sherlock unhooked her arm from his and strode over to reëxamine the blood trail that stopped so abruptly.

"Well maybe he used a bandage or tourniquet too?" suggested Lestrade. "Maybe he stopped the bleeding and then ran off…somewhere."

"Wait a minute, he's running from the Russian mafia that has just tortured him; he's running away from an intense firefight, and then he stops to apply first aid in the middle of the tarmac, where everyone can see him? Even the Russian waited until he had some cover against the wall," said Mary Morstan. "It just doesn't make sense."

"Well, maybe he just applied pressure to whatever was bleeding, said Lestrade ruffling his hair in frustration. "Hell, he is a doctor, after all."

When the idiots weren't nattering on, it was fairly quiet. A jet engine purred quietly at a distant gate. Sherlock estimated that it was between 12 and 1 am. A lone baggage tram snaked its way from a late arriving flight, the luggage carts were only half full. Its headlights grew brighter until it passed only four or five meters from where Sherlock stood. He watched it with wide eyes, as it crawled off, finally disappearing into the terminal.

"The baggage trains! They pass right by here. Look, you can see all the tire marks. At least one rolled over the last bit of John's blood stains." Sherlock's announcement was met with blank stares. "Think, for God's sake!"

"You think Watson climbed aboard a baggage tram and then rode it back into the terminal?" chimed in Irene. "That's brilliant, Sherlock."

"Yes. That was quick thinking on John's part, especially given the extreme stress he was under," said the consulting detective with obvious pride. "Most everyone is an idiot, but John is clearly much less of an idiot than you lot."

Within minutes, Sherlock began exploring the dimly lit baggage facility. Only one conveyor belt was in operation, while two workers methodically transferred luggage from the baggage train onto the beltway out into the terminal. The belt hummed, and the workers chatted intermittently over the tinny music from their radio.

Mary Morstan found a small drop of blood, not far from where the trams entered. Using that as his starting point, Sherlock crept around the facility, sticking to the walls and locating two more small stains.

He soon found a lavatory with blood in the sink and dried blood on the floor. Blood stained paper towels were in the trash bin as was a bloody tee-shirt that might have been John's. In addition, the bin disgorged a torn shirt and bloody pieces of glass along with a sewing needle with thread.

In the corner of the restroom, the detective found a small pile of women's clothes dumped on the floor next to a small open duffel bag, full of men's clothing, size extra-large.

"John stopped here to tend to his wound. He extracted glass from his cuts. He found a sewing kit, no doubt from one of the two bags of luggage that he ransacked. Probably the woman's bag as her toiletries are missing. He stitched some of his wounds and used strips of this torn shirt to make dressings. He may have stolen some clean clothing before he exited into the main terminal. He kept the woman's bag, dumping her clothes but keeping the toiletries which may have provided some rudimentary first aid supplies. Women are often better prepared for life's little emergencies. But where did he go from here? Does he know anyone in Bangkok?" mused the World's Only Consulting Detective aloud. "Morstan, you and Ahsan must check the CCTV tapes of the baggage claim area and the front of the terminal. Lestrade, call Mrs. Hudson and have her check John's address book for any listings from Bangkok. Also check with his sister and his friend Bill Murray…Well, well? What are you all waiting for?"

Morstan and Ahsan were already running back to the security office. Lestrade held his phone to his ear.

"Hold up , Sherlock. I'm calling Mycroft right now to help with this. After all he's got Harry and Mrs. Hudson in protective custody. Hell, he's probably even watching Murray. Mycroft can speed up the searches in London, yeah?" said Lestrade. He rubbed his tired eyes and longed for a giant cup of very hot, very strong coffee.

* * *

At five in the morning, with no new data, Sherlock conceded temporary defeat and allowed the group to check into a hotel in Bangkok. The CCTV tapes had shown John Watson at 1625 hours wearing a very baggy red hoodie ('no doubt sized extra large,' muttered Sherlock), a Disneyland ball-cap and sunglasses. He limped through baggage claims with a small black piece of luggage over his shoulder ('no doubt that belonged to the woman,' said Sherlock.). The doctor lost himself in the afternoon crowds in front of the terminal.

Sherlock shrugged off Irene's ridiculous dinner and breakfast suggestions and locked himself in his room. Lestrade did have one good idea. Sherlock broke down and called the only person who might be as smart as he was, his brother Mycroft.

"Sherlock, do you have any idea how late it is here in London?" asked the British Government.

"Irrelevant," snapped Sherlock. "A man's life is at stake, not to mention your precious mission if something should… happen to that man. I'm sure your minion, Lestrade, has filled you in on all the pertinent details. John escaped from Dimitri, thanks to the distraction of that bungled arrest attempt which nearly killed him and resulted death and injury for others."

"Sherlock, I did not arrange for the police action in Bangkok," said Mycroft with a sigh. "As best we can tell, the authorities were honestly trying to capture Dimitri for crimes that he has committed in Thailand. Apparently the new city administration is attempting to clean up crime and corruption, which most people would applaud."

"I could care less about their motives; it is the results that matter. While John somehow managed to escape, he is still missing and he is hurt," stated the detective, rubbing his eyes that mysteriously wanted to tear up. Preposterous.

"It is regrettable that John was caught in the crossfire. I am relieved that he used it to escape unscathed," replied the British Government.

"I did not say unscathed, Mycroft," Sherlock spit out. "You are not listening. Do you have cake in your ears? John was bleeding fairly heavily after his escape. I am sure that you realize, from the CCTV footage and Lestrade's updates, that John was injured and almost certainly tortured while in the hands of that bastard Dimitri."

"Well, I expect that we shall be hearing from the good doctor in the near future," reassured Mycroft. "Frankly, I am surprised that he did not go straight to the British Embassy…"

"Frankly, I am surprised that you would even entertain such an absurd notion. You must be suffering from cake withdrawal," snarked the consulting detective. "John has no reason to trust the British Government which cheerfully abandoned him to the likes of Jones who then tipped off Dimitri. No, under the circumstances, John will not trust any government. Indeed, I strongly suspect that John can no longer trust anyone one fully."

"Not even you?" said Mycroft, feeling more relief than guilt.

"Perhaps not even me," admitted the genius, hiding his dismay from his older brother. "At the very least, Dimitri already used me to blackmail John, in Mexico. He will therefore refuse to seek help from me, thinking that he is protecting me. No, John is alone, injured and no doubt psychologically damaged, however brave a front he presents to the world. I must find him in spite of himself, and you must help me."

"I must concur with your assessment of Captain Watson. However, I think that you should accept the reality that he doesn't want or need your help," began the British Government.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong! You refuse to understand me. John wants and needs my help, but he will not ask for it, because he fears to endanger me. He may also feel that he is obligated to leave me for my own protection, since I abandoned John to save him from Moriarty. Mycroft, I require your assistance and would welcome intelligent suggestions," said Sherlock exposing himself to possible ridicule from his brother. It didn't matter. Finding John was the only thing that mattered.

Mycroft was shocked by his brothers open request for help and , more significantly, advice, and so, he didn't answer. Sherlock continued, "I want the consular databases from the UK and the US made available to me. It is possible that John has a friend or army mate living in Bangkok. He may consider contacting such a person for help. Please, Mycroft. I have tolerated the interference of your handlers. I have not tried to evade them. Please, assist me, Mycroft. This is…John is…he is important, Mycroft."

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose. His little brother was pleading now. His little brother was pleading for John Watson. Unprecedented. Unexpected. Sherlock not only cared for another person, but he was willing to admit it to his self-professed archenemy.

"I'm sorry, little brother," said the British Government. He then willed his sentimental emotions back into his own Mind Citadel in order to focus on the matter at hand.

"We are trying to assist at this end, Sherlock. My operatives have already combed 221b Baker Street for any clues. They haven't found any links to Bangkok…" said the older Holmes.

Sherlock made a soft growl of disgust.

"I fully realize that you doubt their abilities and will wish to review the data yourself Sherlock," said Mycroft smoothly. "Therefore, everything that they found has been digitized, including Dr. Watson's address-book, his backup hard-drive,old letters, school Year Books and even some of his photos. I have also taken the liberty to send his medical and military records. Because of its very personal nature, all of this information is being sent to you via Detective Inspector Lestrade. I did not think that you would want all of John's private life exposed to, well, to certain of the members of your team. Lestrade, on the other hand, is discreet and John's friend."

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock uncharacteristically thanked his brother. "When can I gain access to the records of US or UK citizens living in Thailand?"

"The records of the British Consulate will be available as of now; the passwords have been texted to your mobile. The British Ambassador to Thailand has also been instructed to coöperate with you fully, should you need any assistance," said the British government. "I should be able to get you access to the US Consulate in two to three hours."

"Sherlock," Mycroft made a moue of distaste as if he had just bit into lemon. "I misjudged Dr. Watson's importance to you. It will not happen again."

"Fine, Good-bye, Mycroft," snapped the consulting detective.

Exposed and open to the likes of Mycroft Holmes, thought Sherlock. The last thing I need is sympathy from him. Disgusting.

The lean detective rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and immediately began to access the files of the British Consulate using his laptop. He also sent a text to Lestrade demanding that he bring John's private files over at once.

* * *

The bright late-morning sun shone into the hotel room through gaps in the rich, azure-blue curtains. Sherlock sat cross-legged scanning his laptop and occasionally using his Smartphone. Lestrade sat at the desk, leaning on his elbow.

"Sherlock, no one in John's address book lives in Bangkok. I've gotten a hold of most of them by phone, and they do not know of any connection that John might have had with anyone in Bangkok," explained the detective inspector.

"Morstan, Adler and I have tried to call the all of the US and UK ex-pats with any military history. One man, just one, thought that he remembered a Dr. John Watson who treated his in-grown toenail years ago. I had to listen to a detailed explanation of the minor surgery that John performed." Lestrade shuddered at the memory of the man's vivid description of the minor surgery.

"Fine," said the tall man who was balanced in a pretzel shape as he scanned data on his laptop. "Review John's pictures. Call in Morstan; she can help you with the pictures of John during his stint in the army.

"What do you think I've been doing? Look there's a couple of old family photos, some school…" the older man said.

"Focus on the more recent photos, especially his army pictures," said the detective, running his hands through his hair. Why was John so stubborn? Why didn't he call Sherlock? Unless he couldn't call because he had been kidnapped again. The younger man got up to pace the room, rubbing his fingers lightly over the nicotine patches supplied by his temporary assistant, Ahsan. What if John was already back in the clutches of Dimitri? Now Dimitri…Sherlock was certain he could find that man…he had a base in Bangkok and it was certainly at the Hibiscus Hotel.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Lestrade opened the door to find Irene Adler. looking immaculate in a form-fitting white dress and jacket. As always her hair and makeup were perfect. Lestrade felt like a troll in front of her. He wore wrinkled, stained clothes and his graying hair was ruffed and unkempt.

"I brought tea and sandwiches," she said inviting herself in. A waiter pushed in a cart loaded with several trays.

Lestrade was famished and decided to forgive Irene for looking so perfect. He tucked in immediately, eating a sandwich while pouring himself some piping hot coffee. Maybe, Irene wasn't all that bad, he thought.

The consulting detective ignored the trays and continued striding back and forth.

"You should really take a break, Sherlock. If you don't want sandwiches, maybe we could have dinner?" she suggested.

"'S too early for..mm..dinner," mumbled the inspector detective around his food. Stupid sandwich had some weird, fancy cheese on it, probably that Gruyère cheese, thought Greg Lestrade with disgust. Ugh. What ever happened to good old-fashioned Swiss cheese.

"It's never too early for dinner, Detective Inspector," replied the dominatrix, her voice dripping with condescension.

The lean consulting detective paused. He cocked his head to the side, fixing the dark-haired woman with his stare. "Yes. Fine. We can have dinner. It will provide a distraction."

Irene moved in swiftly, slipping her arm into Sherlock's arm. Lestrade sat frozen in mid-chew.

"We can order in food to my room…" began Irene.

"Not here," Sherlock whispered into her ear. "Surely you can find somewhere more discrete?"

"Sherlock, you can't be serious. What about John…you can't just…what…" sputtered Lestrade.

"I think that you'll find that I can, and I will. I am curious about something, and I shall satisfy my curiosity. I shall probably be gone until tomorrow morning," said the aloof, dark-haired man. Sherlock sailed out of the room with Irene; her eyes were alight with the promise of victory.

**A/N** I know nothing about the police in Bangkok. My descriptions are entirely based on my imagination and bad television shows. Furthermore, I have no reason to suspect that the police in Bangkok are any more corrupt than in any other city. Which is to say, not very corrupt at all.

BTW Sorry for Irene. Please don't hate me too much.

Thank you to everyone who has read my fic and especially those who have reviewed it. Reviews are my treats, and I love hearing from you.

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock or any Sherlock related story.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N-Please note that at the end of the chapter, there are a few translations (courtesy of issyapir) and a great quote by Libby Bray (sent on by Darkhearted243.)

**Chapter 4 **

John had boarded the bus in a confused daze. Fortunately, somewhere between the airport and Siam Station, the AWOL army captain had finally recognized that he had been to this city twice before, although it had been five years previously. He was in Bangkok, Thailand.

It wasn't a big help, since he didn't know anyone in Bangkok, but at least he felt a little less lost. Just knowing helped to ground him and control his growing panic.

The doctor let the masses pull him along, away from the gleaming Sky Train station. He carefully avoided the train station with it's security cameras. He didn't want to show up on the CCTV cameras that could alert the CIA, the Thai secret service or God forbid, the Russian mafia to John's presence.

So, for now, he tried to merge with the busy crowds. In order to hide most of his injuries, John still wore the oversized hoodie, which he had ransacked from some poor sap's luggage. He also hid his face under the brim of a stolen ball cap and some pilfered sunglasses. Dear God, he now resorted to common thievery. How had he fallen so low?

A Tuk Tuk* narrowly avoided running into John as he crossed the street. More Tuk Tuks, motorcycles and cars filled the streets.

He wandered between the outdoor vendors selling everything from sandals and dresses, to food and drink, to electronics. John began to feel shaky, as the reality of his plight sank in. He was a sitting duck for anyone who wanted to kidnap him. Heck he was a sitting duck to be arrested since he was technically in Thailand illegally.

John's thoughts whirled around futilely trying to decide his next move.

I can't call Sherlock, without dragging him back into this mess. Oh God, what is that man up to anyway? Is he back in London solving cases? Does he wonder where I am? Does he worry? I should just call him, but then he might get hurt. I can't call him. Bloody hell.

I can't call Mycroft, because God only knows what he'd do to me. Hell, what am I thinking? I can't call _anyone_ because I don't have a bloody phone. I'm an idiot

Right, so stop worrying about making stupid phone calls already.

OK, I have no passport. I could contact the embassy, but I can't even trust my country's bloody embassy.

As if I could find the bloody embassy. Where was it anyway? Brama road, Rama road. No. No, it was on Rama 1. Who cares? I can't go to them for help. The embassy would just turn me over to Mycroft, who'll sell me to the Israelis or the Yanks or someone.

Besides which, I keep forgetting that I'm AWOL, and there's probably warrants out for me. And don't forget, I'm a common criminal now.

I'm sure knocked out some kind of policeman at the airport. Assault on an officer of the law, that's probably good for twenty years to life in prison. And I'm a thief. I stole clothes, money, a camera and even some woman's personal toiletries. And what the hell does that say about me?

Yeah, I'll probably have to spend the rest of my life on the lam, like the Fugitive.

Life on the lam sounded exciting, liberating even, when it was Harrison Ford on the big screen, but now John was living it. Already it just really sucked.

Then his mind started chasing itself in circles all over again, like some mad dog. God I wish I could call Sherlock. Shite, I don't have a phone. I should call the embassy; nope too dangerous….

John threw himself down, in an untidy heap, against a storefront. He gave it three minutes before someone charged out and shooed him away. He had to get control of the situation. He had to make a plan.

Christ, Watson, buck up. Remember you brilliantly and single-handedly escaped from the Russian mafia, not to mention some heavily armed storm-trooper types. Yes. I was very brilliant.

Honestly the whole escape was a blur; John did remember bullets flying everywhere. At least he recalled striking down that monster Dimitri. The memory of Goliath falling to his knees made John's inner soldier fist pump wildly, amidst the rubble of John's battle-damaged Mind Fortress. The Mind Fortress took a serious beating yesterday and needed some major reconstruction, thought John.

After bashing the stormtrooper/policeman, John remembered that he jumped through a bloody window like he was freakin' James Bond, nearly slicing his arm apart and almost breaking his freakin' leg.

Which reminded him that his head throbbed, his shoulder ached, his left hand burned, his leg… OK. Lets see what _doesn't _hurt. His right foot didn't actually hurt and his left ear was relatively pain-free. Otherwise everything either ached, burned, or cramped.

An older woman, grumbling in Thai, scooted him away from her shop. John smiled apologetically at the woman, and murmured "Khob Khun"* which was about all he could say in Thai. He got up slowly, marching off down the busy sidewalk. Eventually, he decided to take his chances walking in the busy road to avoid the vendors and shoppers.

John spent some of his precious funds on a hot cup of tea that tasted like ambrosia, even with the sugar he dumped into it. You need the sugar for energy, quipped his battered inner doctor. Christ, I really hope _I_ don't look that bad, thought John.

He also purchased some cigarettes that at least reminded him of Sherlock, even if they didn't help him think. Maybe nicotine only helps geniuses think. Maybe my mind is more traumatized than I thought. A bit not good, that.

He really didn't have much money. John's foray into luggage larceny had netted him a stolen camera, twenty-six American dollars and perhaps around 2000 baht, which he thought was equal to about forty dollars. It wasn't enough to get him a hotel room, let alone help him get to India. He felt the vague stirrings of panic in his belly once again, mixing with pangs of guilt for stealing any money in the first place.

Or maybe, he thought, maybe these are hunger pangs.

Despite his dwindling funds, John splurged on bowl of Keow Teow Tom Yam*. He awkwardly shoveled the noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. The hot, spicy noodles burned his injured mouth and split-lip, but they tasted wonderful.

John rested on a bench, in front of the noodle vendor in a patch of sunlight. He savored every morsel of food. It had been a long time since one of the Bigs gave John the stale sandwiches and water. He'd had nothing to eat for at least a day, except some of the stolen chocolates more than two days really, since he hadn't eaten more than a mouthful of sandwich.

And what would his foster-father, Mr. al-Masri have said about _stealing_? John could easily picture the disappointment in his dark eyes.

Christ, everyone was going to be disappointed with John's new career of crime. Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Sherlock all of them would feel let down…Of course, Sherlock would probably only be disappointed that John had become a dull, common, ordinary thief instead of an interesting criminal mastermind.

John could practically hear Sherlock's baritone in his head, _'Really, John? You bothered to steal cheap clothes, women's toiletries and money worth less than £50 Sterling. Not really worth my time, John. DULL.'_

The exhausted army doctor caught himself nodding as he sat. He was worn out from fear, torture, beatings, more fear, more torture and oh, yeah, how about some plain, old, ordinary jet lag.

It would be so easy to just give up. Just curl up into a ball and ….

No, no, no. A soldier never gives up, never surrenders, What would your Army mates say if they heard you trying to giving in? What would Sebastian say? What would your father have said?

As a matter of fact, he knew exactly what his father would have said. _'Don't be such a cry baby. Now get up and march, before I give you something to cry about._' Most likely followed up by a stiff punch to the side of John's head.

So John got up and straightened his stiff shoulders. At least he had food and tea in his stomach. That helped. He pretended to be interested in the racks of tee shirts and rows of hats.

Bangkok was even more crowded now than the last time he was here with Colonel Moran and the rest of their team.

John tried to think back to when he was on leave in Bangkok, back when he and Seb were still good mates. And I had my other mates with me to, Micky, Chas and Cam. And Stewart, Christ, I can't forget Stu.

But what the hell did we get up to in Bangkok? Mostly I just remember we drank a lot. We chatted up girls, well, Chas chatted up guys instead of girls. Same idea. We drank some more. We bought black-market Cuban cigars and black-market arms, like Seb's specially modified L115A3.

John cudgelled his memory. And I picked up that beautiful model, Pailin. John smiled at the memory of the tall, thin woman with dark wavy hair. John and Proy, as she had liked to be called, had laughed a lot at nothing in particular. They had gotten on quite well during the their weekend together, much to the astonishment of John's very jealous mates.

Hmmm, John hummed to himself, maybe I do have a type after all...tall, dark and mysterious. And bossy. Pailin was almost as bossy as Sherlock, come to think of it. And just what does _that _say about me?

John had stopped walking and tried to imagine what his Sherlock was doing. Maybe he was chasing a serial killer through the streets of London right now. Maybe he was sleeping on the settee, with his unruly curls falling into his eyes. Maybe he even thinks about me, just a little, when he's not working on that case with Lestrade.

I wonder how Sherlock got back to London so fast. Unless they're not in London...No, of course they're back home. It's not as though Lestrade would join Sherlock in America. And surely Mycroft wouldn't let Sherlock come after John, not with Dimitri running around kidnapping and torturing people…

John felt a tug on his shoulder as someone tried to make off with his small duffel bag. John whirled around and almost punched a seven or eight year old boy. John held back in time and just gave the young thief a stern look. Hell, the kid was no worse than John, just another thief.

Thinking about Sherlock was a very bad idea. It made John lonely, worried and, worst of all, distracted. Not a good idea at all. Thinking about his dead mates was just depressing.

OK, so who did I know in Bangkok, besides my mates? I knew a fashion model that probably wouldn't remember me now. And then there was the arms dealer.

Well, that arms dealer, O'Brien, might actually still be around. The former US army soldier used to run a pawn shop , selling black market guns on the side. In fact, Colonel Moran had fenced some loot with O'Brien. The two got on well together because they were both in it for the money and not too concerned about petty morality.

Maybe O'Brien is still in business and still interested in making a profit. Maybe O'Brien would remember Captain John Watson, RAMC? It was worth a try.

* * *

It took a couple of hours to find O'Brien's pawn shop, located in a less savory part of Bangkok. It was 2030 hours, but the dark streets were still populated by people, out walking in cooler evening air. Families spilled out onto the streets, as neighbors chatted in the cool of the evening.

The street smelled of diesel exhaust, cheap perfume and cheap alcohol. It was a strangely familiar smell. The sudden wafts of cigarette smoke made it feel like home. It reminded him of the back streets of London chasing after a certain consulting detective.

John cased the somewhat shabby pawn shop; yellow light spilled into the street from the two open doors. A large man stood guard at the door. Like everyone else today, the guard, who had vivid snake and dragon tattoos, eyed the doctor suspiciously when he finally entered through one of the two separated doorways.

The shop looked exactly the same as it had when John had first seen it, half a decade ago with Sebastian and the rest of their team. The items for sale were behind vertical metal security bars as was the shop clerk, a young Thai with a shaggy goatee.

Of course, he also watched John suspiciously. Well, maybe John did look a little ragged. His jeans were stained with blood; he was unshaved and his hair probably still had blood in it. Then too, his hoodie obviously didn't fit, and his face was banged up a bit, his hand was bandaged in strips from a tee-shirt and he was wearing a woman's tee-shirt (But he had to choose between the woman's tee or the extra larger man's tee and only the woman's tee fit and it did not mean he was a cross dresser and you can't really tell whether a tee was made for a man or a woman anyway, can you? And the only make up he used was the concealer to hide the bruising and maybe some lip gloss but only as a substitute for lip balm and only because of his lips were bleeding for Christ sake, and yes, yes, I'm gay but still not a cross-dresser, which would be fine and I guess I really am suffering from brain trauma if I'm seriously worrying about this right now.)

After fidgeting for several minutes and testing out several different approaches in his imaginary Mind Fortress, the army captain finally decided on a frontal assault. The frontal assault was almost always plan A for Captain Watson anyway.

"Sawadee,* I'd like to see Ms. Alisa O'Brien," said John. The skinny young man shook his head and began talking loudly. Naturally, John did not understand any Thai other than hello and thank you.

So is Mr. Goatee'd angry because he didn't understand my English, wondered John? Or is he angry because he did understand and doesn't want me to see O'Brien? Sherlock would have known by the way the kid leaned or from the pen he held in his hand. John was just too stupid and too tired to figure it out.

Pushing on, "Look, if you'd only let me speak to her for a minute," John replied loudly, over the young man's loud protest. "Look, I met her a few years ago. I have a business proposition."

The young man only yelled louder, so the tired and stressed out army doctor increased his own volume. "Could you not yell at me? I've had a Very Bad Day. Could you just tell her that Captain Watson, who used to work with Colonel Moran, has an easy way for Ms.O'Brien to turn a profit."

The large, tattooed man leaned in through the door on the right. Oh yeah, he had bouncer written all over him. The small, injured doctor could already imagine the pain he would suffer when the bouncer finally threw him out into the street.

"Look, sorry, I'm very sorry, but does anyone here speak English?" said John desperately. "Look, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot."

The young man behind the counter focused his eyes on John's feet, looking confused.

OK, deduced John brilliantly, he understands English but not the idiom, Sherlock would be so proud of me right now.

Sherlock would also advise a change in tactics. How about a flanking maneuver?

"OK, how about this camera?" the fledgling thief pulled out the purloined camera from the pilfered duffel. "I'd like to pawn this camera. How much for it?" asked John, switching to plan F, for flanking manuever, aka fencing the loot. Although plan B, run like hell, might just be in the offing.

The young man grabbed the digital camera thorough the slot in the gate, and examined it closely.

I bet he knows it's been pinched. Oh God, I'm pawning a stolen camera. I'm fencing it. I'm a hardened criminal now.

In the midst of John's renewed identity crisis, a woman came out from the back room. She was a few centimeters taller than John, and about his age, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth revealing that a good portion of her life had been lived outdoors. Her long, lustrous, dark-brown hair, was worn back in a ponytail.

"I don't think know you," she said in perfect American accented English. "I don't remember any Watson. And the rumors I heard, said that Moran was dead, killed right before he assassinated some guy in London."

"Yeah, well, you heard right, Moran _is_ dead," confirmed the army doctor.

"You sound very certain," said Alisa O'Brien, formerly a sergeant in the US Army. She wore tight jeans, a plain white tee. She had half a dozen diamond studs in her left ear.

"Yeah, I'm certain that he's dead, if that's what you mean," said John defensively. "Considering I took him down." Right, maybe that was too much information. "We were mates, but we had a bit of a falling out. Um, right after he tried killing me and my, um, friend and…"

"You? You took down Colonel Moran?" she sneered. "I find that hard to believe, Watson. I knew Moran; he was a true warrior."

"Ms. O'Brien…" he began.

"O'Brien, just O'Brien," said the ex-pat American. "I don't get off on Miss. and Ms. And since I'm out of the Army, I don't need to be called…"

"Sergeant. You were a Sergeant in the US Army and a weapons expert, as I recall," said John speaking quickly. "A few years back we had a little wager, you and me, that you could shoot better than me. I outshot you with both a handgun and a rifle and won fifty bucks from you. I was serving with Colonel Moran at the time; maybe you remember us partying together. You and my friend Cameron hooked up for a couple of night. Which was fine," he added seeing her scowl. "Anyway, you might, maybe recall me by my nickname, uh, names. The guys called me Doc or Baggins or Hobbit." John tilted his chin and gave her his friendly 'I'm just a nice, friendly hobbit smile.'

"Doc? Baggins? _You're_ the hobbit? The sniper-doctor, with Moran's special ops team?" O'Brien asked suspiciously squinting her eyes at him. "I _also_ heard your whole team died. How come you're not dead?"

"Moran got the others, except Stewart; the Taliban got him. The Colonel tried to get me a couple of times too, but I guess I'm hard to kill," said John shrugging. "So you do remember me, right? What would it hurt to listen to what I've got to say? Seriously, I do have a business offer."

"You look like something the cat dragged in," said the woman leaning against the counter on her crossed arms. "You're here because you need something. You're in some kind of trouble. From the look of your face, the way you favor the left side of your body, you're hurt and in bad trouble. I bet it's dangerous to help you, Doc. Can you give me a reason not to tell Lek to dump you back out into the street."

Bloody hell, she's bloody deducing me. I don't remember her being another ruddy genius. Still, I have to convince her; she's my last chance. "Look, can I please have two minutes of privacy with you? Just two?" asked John.

O'Brien played with her long hair for a moment, considering. "OK, Tony, you go outside and have a smoke," she said, unlocking the steel cage and waving the young clerk through the exit door. She shut both of the doors and began tapping her foot.

"He doesn't really look like a Tony," said John.

"My brother, he's half Thai, half American, like me, Doc. And you're wasting your two minutes."

Bloody hell, she's right. "Colonel Moran, Sebastian Moran, when he died, he supposedly left a couple of weapons stashes behind. Stashes with money, possibly stolen loot and some guns. No one knows where. Some, um, some people think that I might be able to find them. And so, yeah, I got in a spot of bother with some people the other day," said John, afraid to overplay his hand.

"Some people?" asked Alisa O'Brien. "Some people, who? Gangs? The mob?"

She deserves to know the truth. She needs to know it's dangerous, thought John swallowing, "As a matter of fact, yes. The Russian Mafia is quite keen on the idea.

"In the backroom, Doc," she hissed, abruptly pulling him past the gate. "God almighty, you're standing there in plain sight with the Russian mafia after you. You're such an noob," Alisa chivied the shorter man into the back, passing into a darkened storeroom. "Wait here, idiot. I'm not saying I'm in, but I gotta hear your story now."

She hurried up front, giving terse instructions in Thai. John noted the many guns hanging on the walls behind locked cages. The smell of gun oil was soothing. John missed his Browning.

Captain Watson leaned against the wall, sighing. Well at least she was listening, unless she' secretly calling in her underworld contacts. In which case, I'm fucked, and she's probably fucked too. God, I hope she's not that stupid.

Alisa O'Brien swept back into the back room after locking the steel gate, "OK, Doc. If you're telling the truth, and that's a _big if_, then maybe I'm interested," said O'Brien, whipping her ponytail behind her. "But you know, and I know, there's more than guns and some jewelry involved. There's gotta be a lot of cash or drugs to get the Russian's interested."

She cut off John before he could answer. "And you said people. Who else is looking for this treasure? More gangs? Or are some official government agencies involved?"

John was impressed; she didn't miss anything. Great, I have to deal with another genius; no wonder the Colonel respected her.

"I have a friend who said that everyone, and their mothers, are looking for me, so that I can lead them to the caches. I was originally supposed to work for the CIA, officially on loan from my friend the British Government," replied John, sinking down to sit on the bottom step of a stairway to the second floor. A small sigh escaped when he settled.

"And now? Who are you working for now," demanded the woman, her dark, almond-shaped eyes narrowed with distrust.

"I'm freelance, O'Brien," answered John, he really was tired and the pain, well it was best to try to ignore the pain for now. "I was originally reinstated in Her Majesty's Army and seconded to the CIA, but I am now AWOL. Turned out I couldn't trust the CIA, someone in the Agency was selling intel to Dimitri, the Russian, as in the Russian mafia. In fact, the way the news traveled, intel was being sold right and left. And I don't know who I can trust. So my new motto is, don't trust anyone, not the CIA, not MI6, no one."

"But you trust me?" she asked curious.

"That depends. From what I know about you, which isn't much honestly. I trust you to want to make an honest-dishonest profit. I figure you'll be trustworthy so that you can get your money. Turning me in to the CIA or any government will get you exactly nothing, except unwanted prying into your activities. Turning me in to Dimitri would be very risky for you, possibly fatal," said John, actually pleased that he sounded so reasonable and even intelligent. Must be all that practice keeping up with Sherlock. "I figure you'll either lend me the money so I can find the caches, and I'll repay you double what you loan me. Or you'll tell me to get lost, so that you don't have to get involved."

She smiled faintly. "OK, you got me there. I have no intention of turning you over to anyone. Like you said, too risky. Maybe you're not a complete idiot," she said, pacing slowly as she considered her options. She barely remembered this man. He had served with Moran, who she had respected. Then again, Moran turned out to be a nasty piece of work, wanted for drugs, gun running, assassinations and God knows what all.

Alisa did not like to get _too_ involved with crime. Oh, she might fence some goods for a few steady customers. But her pawn shop was on the up and up, most of the time. And her weapons business was mostly legal. It's not like she dealt in drugs, and she wasn't a gun runner or anything. And while she wasn't afraid of a little leg work, she never got involved with hits.

This guy Watson seemed to be OK, but in way over his head. Why should she get pulled under with him? What was he doing it for; why would the CIA get involved for some cash and a few guns?

"What are all of you after anyway? And don't lie to me. If I can't trust you, we can't be business partners," she warned him. "There's got to be more than what you're telling me."

Time to lay the cards on the table. "Rumor has it that Sebastian got a hold of WMD's, nukes. I intend to find them, and see that they get into safe hands, probably US or British military before the Taliban or the mafia gets to them," said John, his voice firm. "Or I'll die trying."

Shit, this is way out of my league, thought O'Brien. Shit. "Shit. And you want me to lend you money for what?" asked the former sergeant.

"I escaped from the Russian mafia, but I have almost no money, no weapons, no passport and so no way to get to any of the Colonel's stashes. I want a couple thousand dollars and a fake passport," said John. "Some dinner would be great too. Then I'll leave. When I find the first cache; I'll pay you back double, plus some, for your trouble,"

"What if there's no money? What if the stashes were just rumors? What if you die before I get paid back?" she asked, biting her fingernail.

"I'll give you an IOU. My flatmate in England will be good for it or my sister for that matter. In fact, if I die, you can have first dibs on my estate. You can draw up a contract and I'll sign it," he smiled disingenuously.

"I remember that smile, Doc," she said finally. "It cost me fifty bucks and my cousin, Pailin."

"No. No, I won that money, fair and square. And your cousin and I were friends," explained the army captain shaking his head. "We dated a couple of times, your cousin and I. We went to the movies and dancing. Proy knew what she was doing. Hell, she was seven years older than me. She almost…I…it's not like I stole anyone, um, anything." John muttered.

She grinned, "Now Doc, Proy and I were close, still are. She told me about your dancing and, lets just say she thought of you as a very close friend," Alsia chuckled. "My aunt found out about the little field trip you took Proy on. She was the only one upset. She blamed me for introducing the two of you. Not that I cared."

Blushing a bright scarlet, John muttered, "Pailin and I parted as friends. We both had careers…"

"S'all right Doc. Proy remembered you fondly, especially your dancing," Alisa's grin grew as John's bush deepened, "Proy is actually a good judge of character so that speaks well of you. And anyway, my Aunt always hates any of Proy's boyfriends.

"OK, Doc," continued the former army sergeant. "I'll tell you what. Dinner is on me. I wanna hear the whole thing from start to finish, and _don't try to leave anything out_. I also intend to do some research on you too." She grabbed his un-bandaged hand and pulled him to a stand.

"First, you're going to take a shower, cause you stink like a grunt in basic. I'm going to get you some clean clothes and order us some food. We'll have us a little chat, but I'm warning you, I'm in it for the profit. Not for some quixotic quest to save the world," said O'Brien.

"I'm not doing this to save the world," muttered John. Climbing the narrow staircase was really painful.

"No?" she asked.

She really was too smart for John. "OK, maybe I'm trying to save the world a little bit," said John. "But I'm also tired of being pushed around. I'm doing it now, just to prove I can."

John shuffled into the kitchen, it was small and cluttered. A bit messy. It felt like home.

"Actually, O'Brien," began John, catching the can of cold beer the former sergeant tossed at him.

"Alisa, you can call me Alisa. But do not call me Lisa or Allie; I hate those nicknames," she said, taking a big sip of beer.

John downed half of his can. "OK, call me John but never Johnny. Anyway, the truth is, I have to find these weapons because people will get hurt if I don't. But I'm not going to give all the loot to any government because they don't deserve it. They don't give a rat's arse what becomes of me. So I need the money, it's become a treasure hunt, Alisa. I'm in it for the fortune and the glory."

"All right Doc," said Alisa smiling back. "I saw the movie, but I'm not so sure that you're Harrison Ford. For some reason, I think I like you. We'll talk some more. Still, here's to 'fortune and glory'."

**A/N – **A long A/N, sorry. (of course no one is making you read it :P) You might want to check out the quote at the end. It's very, very good.

Sorry, also for the delay in this update. It required lots of editing, I started two more fics, (one of which I posted) and Real Life got in the way. Oh, and my cat ate my homework, I mean my rough draft…er..anyway…

A great, big, **Thank you** to **issyapir** for her valuable insights and first hand information about Thailand, of course any mistakes belong to me.

*translations (also courtesy of **issyapir**)

Tuk Tuk-three wheeled motorcyle taxi. (Tuk Tuk tours on YouTube are a blast to watch. I felt like I had a chance to visit Bangkok with out ever leaving my house.)

Keow Teow Tom Yam-Thai noodles that are very spicy and sour and often sold by street vendors,(and I really need to find a local Thai takeaway because reading and writing about it made me

soooo hungry.)

Khob Khun means thank you in Thai.

Sawade means hello

**Thank you** to everyone who is reading my fic.

BTW, I assumed that everyone knew AWOL but assumptions are dangerous. In the US military it means Absent With Out Leave. I couldn't find out whether it's used by British military but I'm using it anyway. I'm sorry if it is used incorrectly here.

Extra big **THANK YOU** those who reviewed chapter 3 including, **I'm Nova, issyapir,darkhearted243, Wicked Winter, Cremains, SamuelE8688. ruvy91, power0girl, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, foxeeflame, Sonia, Darkkira1**. The encouragement, support and help that I get from all of you means the world to me. It also helps me to try to improve. So again, Thank You. (If I accidentally left anyone off this list, please forgive me, I have a cat sleeping on my arm and snoring; she's a bit distracting.

Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to Sherlock or anything related to the shows, movies or books. So please don't sue me.

**Darkhearted243** sent me this fantastic quote by the author Libby Bray (It's about books, but I feel it also applies to the fics we share with each other. Anyway, it made a big impact on me.)

"**We're all strangers connected by what we reveal, what we share, what we take away-our stories. I guess that's what I love about books-they are thin strands of humanity that tether us to one another for a small bit of time, that make us feel less alone or ever more comfortable with our aloneness, if need be.'-**

**Libby Bray**

Thank you, again **Darkhearted243** for sharing that with me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

John clutched a mobile in his hand. The mobile, like everything he now owned, was provided by his new business partner, Alisa O'Brien.

The pawn shop owner/quasi-legal arms dealer had only had three hours to research John's story before she made up her mind to assist him. John was frankly surprised that she agreed to loan him money and help him escape from Bangkok. He was astounded when she further decided to protect her investment by accompanying John to India.

John suspected that O'Brien secretly wanted to see some action again, and John Watson was her ticket to both excitement and profit. Now that made perfect sense to John; after all John had a regrettable tendency to seek out danger.

In only a few hours, the former United States Army sergeant had successfully re-outfitted John. Then she smuggled him out of Thailand and into India, using forged papers and a lot of money. Of course the cost was added on to the amount that John would have to repay her in the end.

After their arrival in Bhopal, India they found a hotel and spent what was left of the night sleeping. They were both too exhausted to worry about the propriety of sharing a bed. Alisa was already asleep by the time John collapsed on top of the bed beside her. Even with air conditioning, it was too hot to get under the covers.

Now it was morning, Alisa had left the hotel to get supplies and the bus tickets to Jalandhar. John had stayed behind to doctor his injuries.

John wore the jeans and low, practical boots that Alisa had purchased for him. He remained shirtless, since he had yet to clean and dress the wounds on his arms and left hand.

To be quite honest, he was putting off cleaning the wounds at all, because, dammit, it was going to hurt-a lot.

John was also procrastinating about making that phone call. Part of him desperately wanted to hear Sherlock's voice and make sure that his consulting detective was safe. He also didn't want Sherlock worrying about John, not after what John had suffered when the consulting detective had...gone missing...after The Fall.

However, John's inner soldier was made of sterner stuff. He said, 'Don't call Sherlock, it's too dangerous. Besides, what if he isn't worried about me? What if Sherlock doesn't even care anymore?' Well now, that did not sound very soldierly, it sounded more like an anxious pre-adolescent. What if he doesn't care...really? Man up, Captain Watson!

Instead of making his call or cleaning his wounds, Captain Watson slouched in a chair and drank his poor excuse for tea.

Then the door rattled. John's eyebrows lowered in suspicion, as he raised his new Sig Sauer.

"Oh put that away, Doc," said Alisa O'Brien, breezing in. "I have the bus tickets, and oh God…" she froze, turning pale as she saw the dark bruises on his chest and the cuts on his arms and one was bleeding a little...

John had never really understood how some soldiers were unfazed by the sight of blood and death on the battlefield yet fainted dead away at the sight of a bit blood in the clinic or, in this case, the hotel room. Apparently, the former sergeant was one of _those_ soldiers.

John moved quickly to grab the slender woman around her waist before she fell. He dragged her to the bed and pushed her down. "Just lay down, O'Brien. You'll feel better in a couple of minutes."

John got a cool, wet flannel and placed it on her forehead. It conveniently also covered her eyes so she couldn't see his injuries again

"Sorry, Johnny," she muttered.

He ignored that and said, "I'd like you to put your feet up." Fitting action to words, John elevated her feet using his duffel bag.

"I'm fine," she said weakly.

"Yeah? Well you will be fine. Just give it a couple minutes, right? You keep this towel over your eyes until I'm done. Did you get more gauze and the antibiotic?" he asked, checking her pulse as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Yes, of course. It's in the bag with the other stuff you wanted, plus something for you to eat. You can't live on coffee and tea; you'd think a doctor would know better," she sighed, mortified at fainting because of some cuts and blood…

She forced herself to think of something else. She concentrated on adding up the costs of this trip to date. The more she helped the doc spend now, the bigger her profit in the end. Besides, it was fun helping the little captain. He was smart, nice and not too hard on the eyes.

The captain was not bad at all, in fact. John was trim and muscular. And the few times he smiled, well that really made the whole trip worth it. She smirked to herself, and then said in a stronger voice, "I think I'm better now, Johnny." She started to sit up.

"No, Alisa," he said pushing down on her shoulder. "You need to rest for a few more minutes."

John rose and began sorting through the net bag she had used for shopping. He found the medicines and immediately took two ibuprofen tablets for pain and then one of the antibiotic capsules.

"O'Brien. I have to clean and dress these wounds. You won't want to watch," said the doctor sternly. 'So either stay on the bed with your eyes covered, or leave the room until I'm done,"

"Fine, cover yourself up, Doc. I'll step outside for a smoke. In fact, I'll go look for a drink; I could use a drink. I'll be back in forty-five minutes so we can get to the bus station on time."

She hurried out of the room, carefully not looking at John. Only forty-five minutes? The doctor got started right away.

The burns on the fingers actually looked good, well, they were clean and healing well even the pain was nearly unbearable. Once they were covered with antibiotic ointment and gauze, they didn't hurt nearly so much.

Most of the lacerations were cleaned and bandaged easily. However, the deep cut over his left bicep was not healing well. He cleaned it as best he could not at all pleased with the erythema, bleeding and the purulent discharge. God, I hope I don't have to drain this damn wound. That would really be too damn much. Please, please let the antibiotic work, John prayed silently. Covering the wound with gauze.

The doctor finally pulled on a dark, long-sleeved button-up shirt that covered all his injuries except his finger burns. It was a tad tight, Alisa seemed to prefer tight clothes on herself and her business partner. John longed for his usual tees or better yet a soft, fluffy jumper.

OK, maybe not the jumper. It was much to hot for a jumper.

He was already perspiring even though the room was air-conditioned. Sure, he was sweating from the pain and stress of treating his injuries, but it was too warm in the hotel room, despite the AC. He sighed again, late May was not the best time of year to be traveling in central India. The heat outside was oppressive, at forty degrees Celsius. John wiped the sweat off his forehead and stood directly in front of the air conditioner.

John ate some fried _vada_ and drank lots of bottled water. He did not want suffer another fainting spell like he had in Mexico. God, that was still humiliating to think about. Of course those giant spiders were mostly to blame. They made him faint. Stupid spiders.

The army captain couldn't think of any more reasons to delay making his phone call. John screwed up his courage.

He tried calling their flat, 221b Baker Street, first. He didn't really expect an answer, but at least he got to listen to Sherlock's voice during the recorded message. That voice ordered the caller to leave a message, but only if it was not dull. John smiled at the sound of his lover's recorded voice.

He didn't bother to leave a message, because, well, what could he possibly say in 90 seconds.

He skipped Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and went straight for Detective Inspector Lestrade. After all, Lestrade knew where Sherlock was last time. He would certainly have Sherlock's new mobile number. Why, there was even a chance that Sherlock would be working with the Detective Inspector right now.

"**Lestrade here, who's this?"**

"**Greg. Hi, it's me, John."**

"**JOHN! Where have you been? Are you safe? I know you're hurt so don't even try to lie about that. Where are you?"**

At least Greg sounds happy to hear from me…

"**Whoa. Greg, slow down. Yeah, of course I'm fine. What makes you think I'm hurt? I am not hurt, well not much… Anyway, it's nothing I can't handle, and I'm used to it now," **John lied.

"**John Watson, I saw CCTV tapes from the airport. You have serious injuries…" **said Lestrade angrily.

What, why did Lestrade have access to CCTV tapes from the airport. Did the detective inspector mean the airport in Bangkok? But wasn't Greg in London?

**"Um, really, uh, the airport? Well, I don't have any really serious injuries. I'm fine, and anyway they're not why I'm calling****. I know you're not Sherlock's keeper,"** said John lightly, forcing a laugh. It did not sound convincing even to John. **"but do you happen to know where he is? Sherlock I mean, do you happen to, uh, know where he is?"**

"**Damn. I'm sorry, but he left for dinner, an hour or so ago, with Irene Adler.** **She's been on him for days, fussing about going out for dinner. He'll be...um...disappointed that he missed you,John. He's been trying to find you. Tell me where you are, mate. And give me your phone number."**

John felt sick. Irene? Sherlock? How had she gotten her claws into Sherlock so damn fast? What the fuck happened to telling the dominatrix that Sherlock was in an exclusive relationship with John?

"**Irene? Sherlock and Irene? Dinner with Irene?…Look can you tell… no, tell them both….Fine!… Right!….Well sod this! Sod this!"**

"**Um, John? You're upset. I can tell you're upset. Don't hang up on me, mate. I don't understand…"**

"**You tell him, SOD THIS!" **yelled John, barely able to speak.

John broke the connection. THE WOMAN. Sherlock and THE WOMAN having dinner. For a split second, John considered using the handgun on himself. Then he shoved it into his waistband.

No, that is just stupid and childish. I can't threaten suicide every time that git acts like a stupid git. The stupid git.

"Sod this!" shouted John to the empty room, punching the wall.

John paced around the hotel room cursing under his breath. He really wished there was something to punch other than the wall.

Better yet, he wished he could shoot something. A snake. No a large spider would be much better. Snakes really don't deserve to get shot, unless they attack. But shooting a large spider would be perfect; spiders reminded John of the queen of the black widow spiders, stupid Irene. _The Woman!_

The damn spider woman from hell. And that unfaithful, stupid git. Who needs him!

John stormed around the room for nearly two hours before he realized that O'Brien should have returned long ago. Well, they had missed their bus. More importantly. Where was Alisa O'Brien? Not Good.

And John had her phone. Very not good.

OK the Sherlock/Irene disaster would have to be shelved for now. In fact, The Woman could be shoved into the brand new, deep, dark and very slimy dungeon of his Mind Fortress. The dungeon filled with snakes and spiders. Damn The Woman! I wish she would rot in the dungeon. I won't stick Sherlock in the dungeon though, even if he does deserve it. But he can go in solitary confinement, stupid man, in a dull, boring room, added John to himself.

John shoved his few things into the small duffel bag, slammed the new fedora on his head and left the hotel room to search for his business partner.

* * *

Armed only with her knife, Alisa O'Brien faced six thugs. She whipped her ponytail out of the way, readying herself for her imminent demise.

Her business partner, John Watson, had disappeared. Granted Alisa had been late, but it had taken more than an hour to lose the man following her. When she finally returned to the hotel, John was gone from their room, leaving half eaten vada, three holes in the wall and no messages. The son of a bitch had skipped out on her.

She had trusted John, but it was plain that he had played her for a fool, with his shy smile and his oh so innocent act. He had used her, used her to pay his way to India and then left her to face his adversaries on her own. The lousy son of a bitch.

This night was going to be her last. The dark alley reeked of refuse and the three and four-story tenements seemed to lean over her, the windows leering at her.

"This is your last chance lady," said the well-dressed thug, a bald man wearing a black suit, and, by his accent, an American like O'Brien. "Tell me where Captain Watson is. That man's certainly not worth your life." He and one of his muscle-bound henchmen blocked her retreat.

"I told you, I don't know where he is. He skipped out on me," said O'Brien through clenched teeth. She rocked lightly on her toes; her muscles tense and ready for action.

"Lady, I don't want you," he said with disgust. "I'll let you go, just as soon as I have Watson back in custody. But if you don't coöperate, I promise you, that I will not hesitate to let my friends have you. Trust me, no one around here is going to bother us once they get started."

It was 0235, and no one was in the alley. Some vagrants slept on the main street, but Alisa knew that they would be sure to mind their own business.

The former US Army sergeant smiled grimly. She had managed to disable or kill three assailants earlier, using her now empty side arm. She still had six men blocking her escape. Damn! Damn that John Watson and his oh so trusty smile for getting her into this mess.

"Tank, Crowe, take her down," said their boss. He sounded bored as he ordered her destruction.

A man, the size of an Abrams Tank advanced. His associate was real tall, but at least he looked human. He followed the human tank, warily watching her knife.

Then, from out of nowhere, a brick flew past, striking the head of the human tank; he dropped like a pole-axed bull. Crowe spun around and was slightly grazed by another projectile, and he stumbled

Alisa O'Brien didn't hesitate. She knifed the ragged thug nearest her, and then tore down the filthy alley. She turned onto the dark, deserted street. Behind her, she heard the crack of handguns being fired. Someone was shooting at the thugs. A single bullet ricocheted near her head. She ran blindly down the street, more concerned about getting away than having any place to go.

At the next intersection, Alisa looked back. She stopped, and bent over, resting her hands on her thighs as her chest heaved for air. In seconds, a short, blond man caught up to her, shoving his gun back into his waistband. He had appeared out of nowhere, and now he grabbed her hand, dragging her through the middle of the street to avoid the homeless people sleeping up against the buildings.

As Alisa had predicted, no one paid any attention to the man and woman running down the road.

At the next intersection, John tugged his partner's hand, saying, "This way, O'Brien."

"No Doc, this is the way back to the bus station," yelled the woman pulling to the right.

John dropped her hand. He stopped only for a second and began trotting backwards.

"No, dammit. No. Not the bus station; there'll be cameras there. That's , that's how they found us, O'Brien, probably from the airport cameras,"' yelled the British Army Captain. "We have to stay away from cameras. We have to lay low. I already told you, I'm on the lam." He turned away from her.

"Doc, you're an idiot. This isn't a movie…"

"I don't care. I'm still right. I'm going this way. You do what you want."

"You stupid, stubborn son of bitch," cursed Alisa fervently. Nevertheless, she ran after the man.

It sounded like the thugs were following, but neither John nor Alisa stopped to look back. John turned again in the hopes of losing their pursuers.

O'Brien grabbed the stubborn son of a bitch's hand again and they tore past streetlights, only half of which were working, which pleased John since it made him and Alisa harder to see. He checked down each side road and alley that they passed.

Seeing something he liked, the blond army Captain turned and led them into another dark alley. At the end of the alley he climbed on top of a heap of trash. The compact blond ignored the smell and the flies, that swarmed over him as he scrambled over the heap. He stacked an empty crate and then a discarded TV at the top of the heap in order to reach up to the bottom rung of a flimsy fire escape. He pulled himself up with difficulty, his left hand and arm protesting. Alisa climbed up right behind him.

She chased behind him, as they ran up the steps and onto the roof of the three-story building.

"OK, new rule, Doc. No more climbing over trash,' complained Alisa scraping her shoes on the brick edging.

"What? Are you saying my escape plan stinks?" asked John, unable to resist the obvious punch line. He led the way to the middle of the roof, crouching low. Alisa followed his example. He heard Jones and his henchmen as they ran down the main street, fortunately by-passing the alley.

So far, so good. At least I learned something useful from Sherlock Bloody Holmes. No, don't think about him now. This is definitely **Not the appropriate Time**. I'll worry about him later.

"Now what?" panted the former Sergeant, as she ducked under some laundry. "We're be trapped up here if they follow us, ya know."

"Nope. First, our friends in black will never think to look up here. Second, we're not trapped, we'll just keep moving up on top of the roofs as long as possible. Now come on," said John, faintly wheezing in the hot, dry, dusty air.

The next apartment building was only a couple of feet away, and they jumped over to it easily.

"And so where the hell did you go, Johnny?" demanded Alisa.

"I went looking for you, O'Brien. When you didn't come back to the hotel, I figured you were in trouble," explained John.

"Well I had to shake a tail, so that delayed me," said Alisa, as she and John climbed along the sloping edge of the roof to reach the adjoining edifice. "You should have waited, or at least left me a note. Honestly, Doc, when you weren't at the hotel, I thought you skipped out on me."

"You must have trust issues," replied John casually. He was not, repeat not, going to think about his own trust issues right now.

"It was actually lucky that some of Jones' gang caught up with me shortly after dark," said John, still a bit short of breath. "I managed to knock out one and the other two kept after me for the longest time. The lucky part came when they gave up the chase, I followed _them_ until I found you and your new friends. I think I got there in the _brick_ of time."

"Oh Christ, Johnny. That is so lame," she groaned.

They jumped over to the next roof. Their clattering woke up an old couple, who had a makeshift shelter a top the building. The woman chased after them with a big stick. John and Alisa were both laughing as they made their escape.

Several minutes later they were on another rooftop; they skirted around some potted plants and wooden chairs that made up a little rooftop garden. Then they finally collapsed behind a whirring air compressor, leaning against the sturdy wire fence that surrounded the unit.

They turned to look at each other, and John began to giggle helplessly. Alisa couldn't resist and began chuckling too.

"You're a crazy little SOB, Johnny," said the former sergeant. "I know you said people were after you, but wow. This is like something out of a movie. By the way, thanks for not running off without me."

"Bloody hell, we're supposed to be partners," growled the soldier indignantly, his brows lowered. "I don't ever abandon a partner, silly woman," said John. He tried in vain to maintain his scowl but, instead, began to giggle again.

Alisa studied her smiling companion. His eyes glittered in the faint light from the moon. He was not unattractive in his tight black shirt, his muscled chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath and laugh at the same time.

"You are a manic," she said biting her lip.

Suddenly, the slightly taller woman seized the front of John's sweat drenched shirt, and pulled him close. She pressed her dry lips against his, kissing the blond.

Instinctively, John leaned in, running his tongue over Alisa's lower lip. She parted her lips in invitation and he deepened the kiss.

He held her pointed chin with his good hand and gently stroked her hair with the other. Alisa wrapped her arms around the John's solid shoulders with a small moan. Her long ponytail fell forward and began tickling his face.

John's heart raced. His tongue explored her sweet mouth until she fought back running her tongue over and under his, Alisa bit his lower lip and sucked on it until he groaned softly.

Their sticky, sweating bodies fit together perfectly and the former sergeant ran her hands over the Captain's muscled chest. He groaned softly into her soft mouth, licking and biting. He ran his hand down her soft cheek that was so different from...…_Sherlock's_?

John froze. Shite. Shite, shite. What the bloody hell am I doing, thought the Captain? I'm an idiot. Oh God, now I deserve to lose Sherlock. ANd he'll know, he'll read my mind and know. Oh God, I don't deserve Sherlock. Oh God, I don't deserve Alisa either. Oh God. Oh God.

He gently pulled away, swallowing thickly.

"Oh God, Alisa. Christ, I'm sorry," groaned John, his voice sounded harsh over the sound of the loud fan unit. He frowned mightily at the floor. "I'm really so… sorry."

"Um, John?" Alisa pulled his chin back up. "Jawhnny… what the hell are you apologizing for. I kissed you. Remember?" she said, with an uncertain smile.

"Oh God. Alisa if this were five years ago…I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." John shook his head to clear it of adrenalin, and lust and now overwhelming guilt. "Look, I'm sorta married…"

"What? You told me you had a boyfriend!" said Alisa. "And just how can you be_ sort-of_ married, sort-of?" She began laughing at him. Which was good, laughing at him was better than the alternatives.

"Well, yeah. No. OK, we're not married, but I'm as good as married," stuttered John, trying to explain. "I mean… What I'm trying to say is, I'm in an exclusive and permanent relationship, and I am monogamous and…"

"Stand down, Captain!" ordered O'Brien, with a chuckle. "Look, I guess I was out of line. I knew about your boyfriend. My God, sometimes that's all you talk about. It's Sherlock this and Sherlock that. So we can hardly say that you lead me on. It was just such a rush; you know what I mean. Obviously, you don't want to…"

"Alisa!" protested John. "It's not that. I would want to except I have someone. He's, well he's everything to me."

"Well, then I guess he's a lucky man then," said Alisa with just a hint of regret. "It's OK, Doc; I just got a little carried away."

"Yeah. God, I got carried away too," said John, "You are a smart, brave and beautiful woman. You surprised me, and,and God, you took my breath away. But I'm in love, really and truly and forever in love with him, and I can't risk that. I won't. No matter what," John bit his lip, recalling Sherlock's dinner date with THE WOMAN from hell. Well, all things considered, maybe John could forget about her, if Sherlock was willing to overlook what happened just now. Maybe….

"You better stop biting that lip, Watson or I may forget myself again. You and I both know emotions can run high after battle, so don't sweat it. Tonight was…well, I've got no regrets, Doc. That was one helluva kiss, bitch."

Alisa bent to place a soft, chaste kiss on his lips.

"You are a true lady, Alisa O'Brien," said John trying to recover his poise. He gently kissed her on the cheek. "And you're right, that was one fine kiss…bitch."

"Don't be rude, Johnny," she said, with a smirk. They jogged over to the edge of the roof. The next rooftop was a foot higher so that they had to jump both up and across. The elevation of the leap made them both fall teeter on the edge, grappling with each other to keep their balance.

John peered over the edge overlooking the street but did not see any sign of Jones. O'Brien took point leading the way slowly now that they seemed to have evaded the chase.

"OK, You obviously recognized those thugs." said O'Brien, not at all fazed by their failed tryst.

"Um, yeah, unfortunately," answered the doctor, who was still mentally kicking himself for being an idiot. "The leader of the men-in-black is Jones, CIA. One of the goons was Crowe, also CIA. I didn't recognize any of the others, but I suppose they're CIA too, yeah?"

"I don't know. Some of them were awfully amateurish. They really didn't seem to know what they were doing. I'd bet some of them are local muscle," she said taking his good hand as they made a short jump.

"Well, Johnny. The good news is, we seem to have gotten away. The bad news is, that they got my bag and most of our cash," she said.

John squeezed her hand. "Well, you don't have to come any further with me, you know. It would probably be safer for you to head home now. I intend to pay you back double, no matter what."

"Oh give me a break, you twat…"

"Will you stop talking like that?" asked John, "I mean really. You're a former officer…"

"Oh no. Hell no. I ain't no officer. Was never no officer," said O'Brien in protest, swinging her ponytail around.

"Noncom, you were a noncommissioned officer. So still an officer…"

"Look here, bitch. I was not a prissy officer. _I_ worked for a living," said the former sergeant. "Don't try to change the subject. I intend to stick with you at least until I get my money. In fact, I may stay with you longer. Now that I think about it, I don't think having WMD's on the open market is a good idea. I have to think of my cousins and nieces and nephews. 'Sides, I don't even have enough money to head back. You're stuck with me, Johnny."

"Well, Sergeant O'Brien,after I find the first cache, you're going back to Thailand," said John using his stern Captain's voice.

"Don't try to pull rank on me, Johnny. I'm not in the Army any more, and we're partners, fifty-fifty.

"And why don't you stop calling me Johnny, while we're at it?" asked the army captain.

They stood at edge of the roof looking to the next building. The gulf here was much wider than any of the others that they had crossed.

"Whoa, Johnny. We can't make that leap it's way too far," said O'Brien holding on to the blond man's arm.

"We need to get across. It's too soon to go back down to the streets," said John eyeing the wide gap over the alley below. "And don't call me Johnny."

"Well, we'll have to find another…God dammit, you stupid bitch!" yelled Alisa as John took a running start and hurtled himself across the abyss.

John's leg gave out and he slipped grabbing the roof's edge with both hands. He hung for several seconds, swaying. The pain in his left hand brought tears to his eyes, but he grit his teeth and slowly pulled himself up. He swung his right leg up and onto the roof. Alisa sailed over the gap and crash-landed just onto the ledge.

She ran to help the doctor, but he was already getting to his feet. "Dammit, Johnny, will you please not pull stunts like that. You're lucky you didn't fall to your death, stupid bitch."

John bit the inside of his mouth,pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow; he had had enough, "I'll stop pulling stunts just as soon as you stop calling me names."

"Well you _are_ a stubborn son of a bitch," said Alisa, scooting under electric wires.

"I think you're calling me names like that because I have a boyfriend. I think you're homophobic," accused John.

"No, I say it because you get real bitchy sometimes," said Alisa.

* * *

Three hours later, John and Alisa were running to catch a train, that was a short distance out from the station and just beginning to pick up speed. Alisa pulled ahead and jumped onto the last car. John put on a final burst of speed, grabbing her out-stretched hand.

The former sergeant pulled with all her might and dragged the blond soldier closer. John grabbed hold of the railing with his injured hand. He was sure that he felt some of his wounds reopening. As he pulled himself up, Alisa hauled on the back of his shirt. Finally, they were both perched on the ladder like monkeys and gasping for breath..

Clinging tightly to the ladder, they climbed up to the roof of the swaying train. There they found many other people sitting quietly as the train sped up, heading northwest.

Alisa leaned into John as they sat; the wind almost felt cool as it rushed by. They panted, catching their breath. John caught her eye, and they broke into giggles for the second time that night.

"We should make it to Jalandhar by tomorrow morning, tomorrow evening for sure. It all depends on the trains," said Alisa speaking into the blond soldier's ear while he held on tight to his hat.

The wind tore past them, Alisa's hair whipped around wildly until she bundled it all under a silk scarf. Then she tied John's hat on with another silk scarf.

"Well, I suppose this looks gay," said John with a grimace.

"You are gay, idiot. You're that detective's bitch, remember," she taunted him.

"Bloody hell, how do you know he's not my bitch?" demanded John, his fists clenching in spite of the bandages on the left.

"OK, OK. I really don't want to think about it. I know I should stop teasing you; I really should. It's just that you remind me so much of one of my brothers. Lets call a truce," she said, holding out her hand. Her almond eyes sparkled in the early dawn light.

"Fine. Truce," agreed John, shaking her hand. "So where did all these scarves suddenly come from, anyway?"

"I borrowed them, Doc," she answered.

"Right," said John, deciding to drop the subject. He really didn't want to know where they came from anyway. He began rummaging in his backpack, digging out a pack of cigarettes.

"You'll never get that lit, bitch," observed Alisa speaking into John's ear. Apparently, the name-calling was still on despite the truce.

John protected the flame with his body and cupped hands; he proudly lit the cigarette and offered it to her.

"Thanks, bitch," she said.

"You're welcome, bitch," he answered as he lit his own smoke. "Actually, I can light up in a sandstorm. It's one of my many hidden talents."

"Well, if I can't date you, Mister Bitchy Pants of many talents, then I may have to adopt you. I can always use another brother, I only have four and none of them are as fun as you."

"I bet you don't call them 'bitch' to their faces, now do you?" he asked settling in for a long ride.

"Hmm, no. I save that for you, slut, cause you're special," she said yawning.

"Yeah, I love you too, like a sister, bitch,"

"Bastard,"

"Daughter of the djinn," said John grinning. It was like teasing Harry, when she wasn't drunk. Harry was kind of mean when she was drunk.

"Moron," said Alisa happily.

"Idiot,"

"I hate you,"

"I hate you too, sis, I hate you too," said John, struggling to keep his cigarette lit, even though he faced backwards.

They sat back to back, and Alisa soon drowsed off. John watched the sky turn from indigo, to purple to red and orange. In a blink of an eye, the sun rose, and the heat began to rise again with it. Even the air rushing past was hot

John turned so that Alisa was wedged between his legs and couldn't accidentally fall off the roof of the train.

John tried to think rationally about Sherlock and The Woman. No, I refuse to call her that, she's just Irene. Beautiful, sexy, intelligent, better-than-me, Irene.

Sherlock will just have to decide what it is he wants, I guess. John scowled in the general direction of England where his errant boyfriend was probably misbehaving.

Ha, like I have room to talk. It's not like I didn't enjoy kissing Alisa. But I don't really want Alisa; I want Sherlock. John sighed thinking about the tall consulting detective and his broad shoulders and his face with rough stubble on it.

It's my own fault for leaving Sherlock on his own. Of course it's not like I wanted to get kidnapped, again. But I should have been smarter, more careful. I bet Irene doesn't get kidnapped.

Maybe he's paying me back for texting Mycroft. Maybe, he won't stay mad for too long. Maybe he'll take me back when he thinks I've suffered enough…

Or, maybe, the git just isn't ready for commitment. Yeah, sure he's in his thirty's but he hasn't really had a chance to play the field. Or, maybe he really isn't gay. That would just be my luck. He'll decide he's not gay just when I decide that I am.

I'll call him as soon as we get off of the train, and I'll talk like a rational adult to the stupid, selfish, two-timing son of a posh, aristocratic bitch. Only maybe I better rephrase some of that when I talk to him.

Yeah, I can do it. I am tougher now. Tough as rocks, hard as nails. Maybe after this, if I can get him back again, that is…well maybe I can lock him up and only let him out for cases.

Unless I have to stay a fugitive from justice forever, then maybe he's better off with HER. I just want him to be happy. He deserves to be happy…

Alisa had turned her face into John's chest, he held his new so-called sister with one arm. The other arm throbbed and ached, and it was slightly damp. Yep, I definitely tore out some stitches, he thought.

John drew his scarf up over his face to keep the dust off, and let the blast furnace heat rush past. He drowsed uncomfortably. The pain gnawed at him and his worries haunted him. Viewed through the thin silk drawn over his eyes, the fields and towns flashed past like phantasms peopled with strange unsettling apparitions. The only comfort left to John was the woman sleeping in his arms.

**TBC**

**A/N** I hope I didn't screw up my descriptions of India too badly. My source of information is the Internet, and it is not always accurate. Please correct any glaring errors, and I will edit the chapter.

Vada-described as a fried fritter disk or doughnut shaped. Often sold by vendors for breakfast or snacks in Southern India. (Wikipedia, Lonely Planet)

Thank you to everyone who reads this.

Special Thanks to everyone who reviewed including, darkhearted243, Sonia, Wicked Winter, ruvy91, power0girl, foxeeflame, InuChimera7410, issyapir, SamuelE8688. Your comments, help and reviews mean the world to me.

**Disclaimer**-I don't own the rights to Sherlock books, TV or movies.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Irene gently stroked his razor-sharp cheekbone with the edge of her soft, milk-white hand. Her blue eyes contested with his, while her other hand slowly unbuttoned his white, Egyptian cotton shirt.

The Woman cupped his face with one hand, and he leaned into its warmth. Sherlock had missed this simple sensation, the touch of another human being. So this is how intimacy with Irene felt, soft and yielding now, but with the promise of something sharp and painful later. Without words she promised put an end to dull routines.

He stopped her hand as it unbuttoned his shirt; he held her wrist and met her sharp glance. Clearly, her desire was real, but, he wondered, what lay behind her glittering blue eyes? He still could not read her. She had a quick, incisive mind racing just like his, assessing, planning, plotting…but plotting what?

Her touch was sure and well-practiced. Clearly, she had done this hundreds of times before. What did The Woman's actions really mean today? Certainly, she had once been attracted him, but attraction did not equate with caring. Her sentiments had not been strong enough to stop her from betraying him to Moriarty.

The Woman raised his hand to kiss the inside of his wrist, her tongue lapping at his pulse. She pulled his face down and kissed him. His lips slid across her glossed lips, his probing tongue tasting the waxy cosmetic. It was a reminder that she, like him, always wore a mask.

She used both hands to cup his face. "Stop thinking and just feel. I know you don't "do" feelings; I know intimacy is foreign to you. But this will feel good. This will be interesting. I know what you will like," she purred, her voice low and breathy.

A surprise, that. She claimed to know what he liked. Yet she did not; otherwise she would not be so confident of her own allure.

Her brilliance appeared to have dimmed over time. Was she misled by sentiment, lust or greed? Perhaps it was all three? Or had he simply over-rated her intelligence from the beginning? It was a bit disappointing.

She caressed his neck, then ran her fingers through his hair. It left tingling trails of sensation. He buried his face in her soft, exotically scented neck, kissing and sucking. He had wanted to test charms of The Woman. He found that her body molded to his effortlessly. His hands traced aimless designs under her jacket, outlining her form. He brushed against her proud breasts eliciting a soft moan.

The woman's kisses were having an effect on his transport. He felt hot. His treacherous body was aroused. It was nothing more than a simple biological response. And consummation could be mutually satisfying and allow for the further gathering of information. And John would almost certainly not understand this interaction. John would not understand that it was simply satisfying curiosity and relieving pent-up sexual tension. John would not understand that this was a chance to escape the overprotective oversight of his handlers. John would attach undo importance to this liason. Obviously, John must remain ignorant of this interaction, for his own good.

The Woman had been kissing his neck and jaw. Now she slowly licked across his bottom lip and, without conscious thought he opened his lips to suck in her tongue, which caressed and probed, cataloguing his responses in a clinical fashion. It was very like the way he used to kiss others.

Indeed, he himself, had been analyzing her kiss just moments ago. Truth be told; he was still doing it. This was the source her attraction, the fact that her mind worked like his constantly analyzing, always calculating. He wondered if she had turned to sexual gratification to turn off her mind, the same way he himself had once turned to drugs and casual sex while in Uni.

But Sherlock didn't need drugs or casual sex anymore; he had John. He should advise her to find a real lover. She should find someone like John. But what if she decided that she wanted John himself? She had never shown any interest in John, but if Sherlock pointed out John's merits to her, that could change.

Sherlock decided not to risk it for now. Later, he would advise her to take a real lover, someone loyal and dependable; he would advise her as a colleague, but only when John was safely far, far away. Realization came crashing down on Sherlock yet again. John was lost. Possibly far, far away. Certainly in danger. It was maddening.

I need to find John now. I have a job to do, thought the tall man; we need to finish this._  
_

His attention returned to The Woman. Yes her pupils were dilated and her skin flushed. Indeed, her pulse and respirations were increasing. She was certainly physically aroused, as was he. Her eyes seemed to close, but under her half-closed lids, she seemed alert and calculating. She wanted him, but more, she wanted something from him. What?

She had made no attempt, this time around, to find the real Sherlock. She did not let him see the real Irene. She was ready to share her body, but she had no intention of sharing her heart. She acted as though Sherlock did not have a real heart. She seemed to think that he was incapable of love.

Oh. Perhaps that explains part of the conundrum. She liked Sherlock; she had a sentimental attachment to him. Yet she did not love him. Perhaps _she _was incapable of love. Irrelevant at this time.

So why has she gone to all this trouble?Not just for the act of copulation, The Woman was seducing Sherlock because she wanted something from him.

Money? Hardly, Sherlock was not rich enough to warrant her efforts.

Protection? That seemed more likely. Protection from what or better from whom?… Moriarty and his cabal had been destroyed. In fact, most of her old enemies had gradually faded away. But what about Mycroft? Her very presence, here, revealed that his older brother exerted some form of control over her. _But_ if she controlled Sherlock, she would have a strong measure of control over the British Government as well.

So protection. And perhaps it was also a gambit to regain some of her old power. Certainly if she could control Sherlock, she could, in part, control his brother.

Protection, power and, yes, there was that small, modicum of sentiment. She began to make sense to him. It was reassuring to be able to understand her. He had been lost in his deductions and forgotten that she was attempting to seduce him. Obviously, she was not as arousing as she thought. He noted that she was kissing his neck lavishly. In truth, as time went on, The Woman's attentions became less arousing and even somewhat dull.

No doubt, John would say, 'It serves you right.' And why did he keep thinking of what John would say to this? Dull. And worrisome. John would not approve of this at all. It would be best not to upset his blogger over trivial infidelity again. It was time to bring this session to an end.

"Why don't you take off your jacket and shoes, get comfortable?" said the dominatrix, as she slid off her white Bolero jacket. Her thin, pale arms, wrapped around him for another calculated caress. It really was a bit tedious after awhile, not really arousing at all.

"I'll be right back, I just want to slip into something a bit more comfortable," she said, her voice sounding throaty with desire. She backed up, her hand lingering briefly on his face, before stepping into her bathroom.

Her timing was perfect. Now was the time to make his escape.

As soon as The Woman left the room, Sherlock darted for the door. He turned down the hall and waited impatiently for the elevator.

Their little meeting had taken a bit too long. Sherlock got on the elevator. It was not a complete waste of time however. He did satisfy his curiosity about how a woman kissed. (Very similar to kissing a man in most respects, although since The Woman was a dominatrix, she may not in fact be representative of most women. Note: I must ask John if this is true.) (ERROR, ERROR...DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, ASK JOHN ABOUT THE WOMAN'S KISSES.)

Sherlock repressed a small shudder, as he imagined John's reaction if Sherlock was foolish enough to let his doctor know that The Woman was even in contact with Sherlock. And if John found out about The Woman sharing a kiss with Sherlock… it would not end well. Obviously, any further curiosity about the physical aspects of attraction would have to be limited to research with his doctor. He had probably pushed his luck far enough on that front.

Irritatingly, it seemed that the elevator had to stop on each floor to allow pushy, noisy people to get on and off. He lodged his observations and hypotheses regarding The Woman in her small, but private, closet in his Mind Palace. Her scheme to control the British Government through Sherlock was moderately clever, but she seriously over rated her physical attractiveness, underrated Sherlock's observational and deductive abilities(not to mention his own sense of loyalty, he thought smugly), and she clearly had no clue, as to John's abilities or his attractiveness, which was just as well.

Sherlock definitely did not want her to set her sights on his blogger. The consulting detective still harbored fears that John, at any moment, might suddenly revert to his heterosexual preferences. Sherlock suppressed another delicate shudder.

* * *

The immaculately groomed consulting detective strode out to the busy street, finally free of his handlers, which had been the main point of meeting with The Woman in the first place. Surrounded mostly by tourists, the tall, thin man looked a bit out-of-place in his fitted, bespoke, black suit. He hailed the nearest tuk tuk. The motorcycle taxi was painted in painfully bright blues and yellow; the driver had his black ball cap pulled down low, concealing his face.

The tall man bent over to slip into the backseat, when he realized that the driver was Ahsan, who turned around to glare at the consulting detective.

Ahsan looked furious. In fact his forehead was furrowed, and his lips were pressed together in an excellent imitation of John Watson, an imitation of John Watson who was very, very angry. A bit not good.

"You have gone off with the fatal feminine," spat the angry young man, running his hands through his black hair in his dismay. "You have betrayed the trust of Captain John Hamish Watson. I have never thought that it would come to this. And where is she? The snake in the grass…"

"Ahsan, you misunderstand the situation entirely. I do not have the time to explain myself to you. You must return to our hotel, while I run an errand…"

Sherlock was abruptly thrown back in his seat when Ahsan gunned the motorcycle. The engine sputtered loudly, and fumes poured out of the exhaust. The tuk tuk swerved into traffic. After only half a block, it stopped abruptly. A delivery truck blocked the road, while it tried to merge on to the busy street.

"Ahsan, this is not a good idea. Have you ever driven one of these contrivances? I believe that it would be best for me to leave you…"

The colorful tuk tuk lurched into motion once more, with another muttered protest from its motor. Ahsan swerved in front of the lumbering delivery truck and picked up speed.

"It is no problem for me, Sherlock Holmes," said Ahsan. He turned around to talk to the consulting detective while still driving. "I learned to drive tuk tuk when I was a boy in Pakistan. It is most very simple."

"Ahsan, I recommend you keep your eyes on the road," said Sherlock sharply, as several pedestrians leapt out of Ahsan's way.

"I am fine. I am not taking your recommendations right now. And so, what have you done with the fatally feminine anyway?" asked Ahsan, braking suddenly and throwing the consulting detective forward. Luckily, Sherlock caught himself, preventing any serious injury.

"I did nothing to The Woman, and before you ask, I did nothing with her," said Sherlock using his coldest voice.

The gelid tones of his passenger did not repress the young driver. Ahsan confidently gunned the motorcycle again. The fumes spewing from the exhaust, nearly choked Sherlock and a nearby pedestrian, who shook a fist at the Pakistani-American driver.

As he made a turn at the next intersection, Ahsan's legs stuck out to each side for balance. Reverting to American habits, Ahsan flipped off a vendor who was foolish enough to get in the way of his tuk tuk.

"So, I am to believe that the great Sherlock Holmes goes with That Bloody Damn Woman into a hotel and nothing happens. I am not so stupid as…"

"Yes, you are to believe me," said Sherlock repressively. "My assignation with Irene was a decoy. It was just a ploy to escape my handlers, which nearly worked. It will be a complete success, once you return to the hotel, where you belong."

"Ahsan, if you are truly concerned about your friend, John, then you should allow me to finish my work unhindered," continued the consulting detective, who had to cling to the seat back so as not to fall out of the sharply turning vehicle. "I intend to eliminate John's enemies. It is intolerable that these people have not only hurt John, but they continue to pose a threat to him. Moriarty taught me that such threats must be obliterated as soon as possible. They must not be allowed to grow and fester. Now if you will drop me off, I will proceed with my business, using a legitimate taxi service."

"No you will not, Sherlock Holmes," said Ahsan, turning around, the tuk tuk veered back and forth erratically. The young Pakistani-American blithely stuck his legs out again for balance. "If you will be going on a mission to oblerate threats against John Watson, then I will be in for it too. You will need the backing up, which is me since I am the temporary assistant. I am also carrying in concealment the gun given to me by John Watson so that I will be covering of your back properly."

"Ahsan, it's too risky, it's illegal and I work alone," said Sherlock. He and Ahsan were nearly obliterated themselves when Ahsan pulled in front of a van. Fortunately, the van stopped, honking madly. Ahsan ploughed straight ahead sending some tourists scurrying for safety.

"Oh my God, those most lame excuses will not work with me, Sherlock Holmes. John Watson already told me about the bloody "Alone protects me" crap. He told me especially not to fall for that kind of crap. So now, I will help you to eliminate and oblerate the threats, and then we can find John Watson. I would only be most happy if the fatally feminine ploy was true," the tuk tuk stopped suddenly again and Ahsan turned to give Sherlock a hard look. "I am doubting this is only a ploy because you have red lipstick on your mouth and your cheek. John Watson ought to punch you for that. But he will not hear about it from me. It is nothing of my business. I see nothing here. I say nothing more about the most ugly red lipstick on your face."

The auto rickshaw raced forward again. Ahsan looked in the mirror to see Sherlock wiping the offensive lipstick off with his handkerchief. The tall man did not meet Ahsan's eyes; he looked guilty. Ahsan nodded, satisfied for now.

* * *

Sherlock and Ahsan wore the white cloth gloves and the Kelly green polyester jackets sported by the Hibiscus Hotel wait staff; the cheap synthetic fabric made Sherlock's skin crawl. While they rode the elevator up to penthouse level, the consulting detective absently scratched his arms

Ahsan carried a large covered tray of food, that Sherlock had confiscated from the kitchen. Ahsan was to do the talking, since he was less likely to be recognized. Sherlock also felt that Ahsan made a more convincing waiter, since there were already a couple Pakistanis on staff at the Hibiscus Hotel.

The detective and his temporary assistant turned the corner and approached the two men guarding the door of Dimitri's penthouse suite. Both Thais were large, beefy men; the older guard's face wore a deep scowl.

"Here is this food for your boss," said Ahsan cheerfully, lifting the lid just a couple of inches.

The barrel-chested, older bodyguard strutted forward and lifted the lid further to get a better look. With an ingratiating smile, Ahsan obligingly lifted the large dome off and then slammed the tray up, scalding the man's face with the hot soup. He fell backwards shouting and cursing in Thai.

At the same time, Sherlock lunged forward and brought the butt of his gun down on the second guard's head; the younger Thai collapsed in heap.

In spite of his burns, the heavyset, older man returned to fight and wrestled with Ahsan, gripping the young mans arms tightly. The guard finally got a better purchase on Ahsan and flung the young man against the wall. Ahsan was momentarily stunned. Growling, the older man pulled out a switch blade and leaned over Ahsan. Sherlock grabbed the man's large arm, but the older fighter slipped out of the consulting detective's grasp and slashed wildly, striking the detectives chest. Ahsan tackled the guard from behind, knocking him to the floor. The guard screamed in agony. He lay in a growing pool of blood, his hands clawing at the floor. Ahsan frantically scrambled backwards and away from the fallen henchman.

Sherlock pressed a hand to his chest. The cut burned, but it did not bleed heavily. The consulting detective used his foot to flip the guard over; the fighter's large knife was buried to the hilt in his own chest. With a choking gurgle, the older guard sobbed; then blood gushed from his mouth, and he went limp.

"Oh my God, Oh my God. Is he dead? Oh my God, he _is_ dead. This is terrible. I have killed a man. And bloody hell; you are dying too, Sherlock Holmes! Oh my God, John Watson will bloody well kill me now," said the young Pakistani-American, using a cloth napkin to dab at Sherlock's bleeding cut.

"Calm yourself, Ahsan. To begin with, the man fell on his own knife after he tried to kill us both. You are not responsible for his death. He was a bad man who kicked his dog and beat his family. Just look at his shoes; they tell us everything. His death is a benefit to society. Secondly, I am not badly hurt; it's nothing more than a scratch. However, I do wish you'd stop exacerbating the discomfort with that napkin which can hardly do any good anyway," said the detective. Fortunately, the wound was indeed shallow, but it was long and it stung badly. Sherlock suppressed his pain; it was unimportant.

"But it is bleeding all over, Oh my God…" exclaimed his temporary assistant, who looked regrettably pale.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock lifted his shirt. "Look Ahsan; it's fine. It just stings. It is not deep. And in fact, even you can see that it's not bleeding very much. And take note, Ahsan, you're not the one who will get in trouble if John finds out. I think we can both agree, that it will be best, if he does not ever find out. Now help me bind the other guards hands, before he wakes up."

They quickly zip-tied the hands of the unconscious henchman and secured a gag over his mouth. Sherlock noted that while Ahsan was still pale, he remained steadfast and competent. He pushed the younger man away from the body and stood him near the door.

"Ahsan, stand guard. If I'm not out in fifteen minutes, leave. Do you understand?" The young man nodded, his dark eyes wide. "And give me that napkin with my blood on it, Ahsan. I do not wish to leave any evidence for the police."

Sherlock removed keys from the dead man and quickly unlocked the door. Alone, he stalked quietly into a large sitting room, garishly decorated in red and gold. He passed a small galley kitchen on his right. He deduced that the doorway on the left would lead to the master suite, which would have the same birds-eye view of Bangkok that he found in the main room.

Dimitri was resting in his opulent, king-size bed. The Russian had a gauze bandage wrapped around his head. He looked up startled when the tall, bloodied apparition appeared. Looking over the mob boss, Sherlock 's vivid imagination visualized this filth hitting and torturing John Watson. This filth deserved death. More importantly, it was the only way to ensure that he did not threaten John ever again.

"Who the hell are you and what…" DImitri's voice trailed off as Sherlock brought up his silenced gun.

In the interest of efficiency, Sherlock eschewed his usual theatrical speech. "This is for Dr. Watson," he said quietly, his deep, soft voice menacing.

From the foot of the bed, Sherlock fired at the Russian's head. Dimitri fell back with a neat round hole above his eyes. At least, the world was now slightly safer for John Watson.

Sherlock gathered up a laptop and a cell phone before making his way through the empty apartment, he planned to analyze their data later.

"Come along, Ahsan, time is not on our side," said the consulting detective brusquely; at the same time he shoved the laptop computer into Ahsan's hands.

They rounded the corner, and Ahsan pushed the elevator call button.

"Wait here Ahsan, I forgot something." Sherlock disappeared around the corner.

Ahsan heard the pop of a suppressed handgun. The younger man grew ashen once again, as the consulting detective rounded the corner, his gun still in his hand. Sherlock was satisfied that he had neutralized all the pertinent threats located at this hotel. There were just two more loose ends that needed tying up now.

* * *

An hour later found Ahsan wheeling a medical cart through a busy hall, trailing behind Sherlock Holmes. They both wore surgical scrubs, masks and hats; they both moved with an outward show of confidence.

They stopped outside of room 403. Sherlock walked in, busily checking the patients chart. Then he hung a fresh bag of medication and attached it to the patient's IV.

Victor Trevor woke up groggily. His nose was swollen and red, clearly broken, and he had two massive black eyes. His torso was tightly bandaged covering over a surgical wound with a tube draining fluids from his chest.

"What's that? It better be more pain medicine," demanded the miserable specimen of humanity. "Are you my new nurse? Why doesn't my fucking phone work? And my telly; it's crap. There's nothing on. My boss is paying top dollar, and I get treated like shit" he said petulantly.

Sherlock shrugged as if he couldn't comprehend the vile idiot.

"Why the devil can't any of you buggers speak like civilized people. Speakee English?" he asked, in a high-pitched falsetto.

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged again.

Victor made a moue of disappointment and closed his eyes. "Fucking, uncivilized bugger," muttered the socialite.

Sherlock looked down at Victor with disgust. He checked the IV's again to be sure that they were running properly. The bag that he had just hung was labeled PENVK. Sherlock tore off the label and left the room. He also tore off the allergy alert on the patient's chart.

Pity, years ago Victor had told a young Sherlock Holmes all about his allergy to penicillin. People really talked too much, thought Sherlock.

The two men, impersonating medical staff, hurried up to room 608. Sherlock took out an empty syringe. He was only in the room for a minute. Then he hurried out.

"Leave the cart Ahsan. We need to get out, now." The two men hurried down the hall. Behind him, Ahsan heard an alarm sound; doctors and nurses converged on room 608.

The two fake nurses entered the stairwell and ran down the stairs. They exited the hospital still wearing scrubs.

"Oh my God, Sherlock Holmes. Have you finished oblerterating all the threats? It is most awful, and I do not think that John Watson would approve," said Ahsan, as he slipped off his blue surgical top and pulled on his tee-shirt. He was eager to leave and boarded the rented tuk tuk.

"It was necessary, and I do not recall inviting you to assist me," said Sherlock irritably, while he pulled his bloody shirt and jacket on over the scrubs. "If you have a problem…"

"I did not say I had a problem, Sherlock Holmes. It is better that they are gone. It is most better that they do not kidnap and hurt anyone else, especially John Watson. I only say that John Watson may have the problem with this. John Watson may not approve. I think we should decide to not tell anyone including especially John Watson and also that police detective from London because they both have this problem with rules and laws."

"Excellent suggestion, Ahsan. I agree; there is really no reason to tell anyone what has occurred," replied the consulting detective drily, as Ahsan started up the garishly decorated tuk tuk.

Sherlock tentatively approved of his temporary assistant. He would have to devise a way to thank Ahsan for his assistance. He would also like to thank John for arranging for a temporary assistant. It was imperative that they locate John as soon as possible, because Sherlock already had plans on how he would like to thank his blogger ...of course that would occur only after Sherlock punished John for not contacting his detective sooner.

Oddly, the punishment and the reward were very similar and both required the use of a bed or, at the very least, a secluded wall.

* * *

"First you waltz off with Irene, God only knows where," said Lestrade restraining his temper with difficulty. "Then an hour later, she comes back, alone, with no idea of where you're at. I all but accused her of foul play. So she's angry at me, and she wasn't best pleased with you either, Sherlock. And I can't say that I blame her."

Sherlock sat, as Mary Morstan put the finishing touches on his dressings. She had only needed to put in a few stitches, where the cut was deepest. The rest was just cleaned and covered with gauze. She was neither as gentle nor as thorough as John, but Sherlock refrained from telling her this. John would have been proud of his detective's self-restraint.

Lestrade paced about the room, his arms gesticulating wildly during his tirade. He paused to comb his fingers through his hair again, making it stand up wildly.

"Then," continued Lestrade, "when you do finally put in an appearance, Sherlock, you are covered in blood…"

"Hardly covered in blood, Lestrade," corrected the very pale consulting detective. He had continued to suppress his pain and exhaustion, but he felt drained. He gave a nod to Ms. Morstan, who had, after all, exceeded his expectations when she performed first aid. It wasn't really fair to compare her to John Watson; no one could really be expected to perform as well as John. She nodded back and left the room to the combatants.

"I said covered in blood! And I meant covered in blood!" ranted Greg Lestrade, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And, you just happen to be wearing hospital scrubs at the same time that reports start flying around about the, oh so convenient, death of Victor Trevor while in hospital. And it just so happens that earlier today, there was a gangland style execution of Dimitri and two more of his goons, while you were out gallivanting around with Ahsan. Well, what a ruddy coincidence, yeah?"

"Oh my God, what is this gallivanting? I would not gallivant with Sherlock Holmes; he is belonging to John Watson," said Ahsan. "Besides, I am not gay."

Lestrade stopped pacing to stare blankly at Ahsan.

"You misunderstand the detective inspector, Ahsan," said Sherlock, sipping the overly sweet tea provided by his assistant, Ahsan. "He just meant that we were touring Bangkok..."

"I did not mean touring! I meant running around like vigil antes! And you!" said Lestrade, jabbing a finger towards Ahsan, who had sat unremarked until now. "You thought all this was a good idea? You followed this madman on a killing spree across Bangkok?!" screamed Detective Inspector Lestrade; any attempt at restraint was now forgotten.

"I do not know what you can mean. What you are talking about?" asked the young man innocently. "Sherlock Holmes went to that hotel with HER. I was never involved then, only ask the woman. I was riding tuk tuk that I borrowed to see the Bangkok sites that needed seeing. I happened to be able to see Sherlock Holmes leaving the Hotel Hibiscus and I had words I wanted to say to Sherlock Holmes about the fatal fem…"

"Shut up; you're lying," yelled the DI, whose hair was certainly going to go all over gray tonight.

"Oh my God, you call me a liar! Oh my God! I can prove am telling the truth to you. Oh yes, I have the bloody tuk tuk! The tuk tuk is in front of the hotel! I have rented it for only 2000 bahts from its owner until tomorrow when I have to give it back…"

"I'm sad to say that you were taken advantage of, Ahsan," said the consulting detective, shaking his head at his young friend's gullibility. "You have paid far, far too much for that rental. You have been, as they say, ripped off."

"Who the hell cares about Ahsan's damn tuk tuk or how much he paid?" yelled Lestrade, now on the verge apoplexy. His face was red and veins stood out on his forehead. "Dimitri and both of his body guards are dead. And Victor Trevor died less than two hours later, from a severe drug reaction"

"Well there you have it, Lestrade. Victor Trevor obviously died from medical malpractice. I don't see why you would blame poor Ahsan," said Sherlock, with a fake smile of concern that fooled nobody.

"I am not blaming bloody Ahsan. I am blaming you! And right before Trevor died, in another part of the same hospital, another of Dimitri's henchmen suffered a sudden cardiac arrest, for no reason. I can't prove anything…"

"No you can't; so stop wasting my time with your senseless fantasies. Clearly, neither Ahsan nor I were involved. Victor Trevor and Dimitri's bodyguard both died while under medical care and ostensibly while under the supervision of local law enforcement. Dimitri's enemies obviously took advantage of his temporary weakness and finished him off, gangland style, as you yourself pointed out. Really, there is no great loss in any of their deaths," finished Sherlock with a wave of his hand. This was so dull. Sherlock had work to do, and Lestrade was being tedious.

"You will surely be a suspect in these deaths, Sherlock. You could be arrested. …" began the struggling detective inspector.

"Which is why we need to leave now," interjected Mitchell stepping into the room. "The hotel van is ready to take us to the airport. I have the others waiting in the van. Captain Emerson and her co-pilot will have the jet ready. You gentlemen can continue your arguments once we get on the jet," finished the handsome CIA agent with an evil grin.

* * *

"Will you both please shut it, already," Agent Mitchell snapped at the consulting detective and Lestrade. "I did not actually want you two arguing all the way to India."

"I still don't get it. Why India?" asked the harassed detective inspector.

"Well it's the obvious choice. I told you long ago, if John left Bangkok, he would head for Jalandhar, India. Unfortunately, I don't know if John left Bangkok. I don't know if John is alright, or even if he is alive! Which is why, I DID NOT WANT TO GET ON THE JET!" yelled the furious, white-faced detective, shaking his handcuffed wrists at Mitchell and Lestrade.

Greg scratched his rapidly graying hair miserably. He and Mitchell had had to use force to get the consulting detective on board the jet. It was an ugly memory. Mitchell's jaw now sported two bruises, and Greg himself had multiple bruises on his legs, all courtesy of the consulting detective.

"Sherlock, we couldn't discuss any of this in the van because of the driver, but I do know that John's alive," said Lestrade reluctantly. "And he claimed to be safe. He called shortly after you took a flit with Irene."

Sherlock turned his head, his mouth parted in shock.

"When were you going to tell me this? Was fussing over the demise of that Russian, that execrable filth, more important than telling me about John?" yelled Sherlock. He jumped up to stand in front of the detective inspector. "Where is he? When will we see him?"

"He didn't say where he was. He did say that "he wasn't injured… much", those were his exact words. He asked for you, of course, and then I said that you went out for dinner with Irene Adler…"

"NO! No, No, No, No, NO." Sherlock's face was bloodless as he paced up and down the aisle, waving his cuffed fists about wildly. "Why in God's name would you tell John that? He'll never call back. We'll never hear from him again. I'll never see him again." Sherlock dropped into the nearest seat, like a marionette whose strings were cut. He was limp with overwhelming despair.

"Well, I'm sorry. I don't understand. Why shouldn't you go out for dinner with anyone you like?" asked Lestrade dry scrubbing his face. "The fact is John got worked up about it too. He cursed and hung up on me. I mean it's as if John was jealous or something. But that can't be right, can it?" Greg got no response from the lifeless consulting detective. "Well, can it?" he asked the others.

Everyone on the jet looked with pity at Lestrade. "What?" asked the detective inspector. He looked at Sherlock who had regained enough use of his limbs to curl up and glare out the window. "No... Sherlock? You mean you and John actually got together? Took you long enough. Wait, you all knew about knew this?"

"Well I assumed you knew, Lestrade," said Mitchell, looking uncomfortable.

"Well I had suspicions like everyone else but …"Lestrade ended lamely and sat with his head in his hands. "Christ, so I basically just told John that his boyfriend was cheating on him. Great, this is just great. John's been borderline irrational for a month or more. Now he gets kidnapped, tortured and I tell him that you, you bloody, great git, are out with another woman. Well, another person, I mean John isn't a woman…"

"Shut up, just, shut up," demanded the consulting detective.

"Well, you shouldn't have gone out with her in the first place..."

"I had to get away from you and all of Mycroft's handlers to, to..." Sherlock's jaw clenched shut and jutted forward atop his stiff, corded neck. His hands clenched into tight fists in the cuffs.

"Oh yeah! So you could run errands, like wiping out Dimitri..." Lestrade's eyes blazed right back at Sherlock's.

"This is getting us nowhere. Perhaps we should use this time to share intelligence," said Mitchell.

"Impossible, since intelligence is in such short supply around here," sniped Sherlock, turning back to the window.

"Well maybe if we were all on the same page and shared all our information with one another, these little mix-ups wouldn't happen," said Mitchell with exaggerated patience.

"Ahsan, tell Agent Mitchell what happened with John the last time we had one of these little "mix-ups," said Sherlock scathingly, while trying to make annoying air quotes with his fingers in spite of his hand cuffs.

"Well, John Watson got very quietly weird and made fake smiles so he thought we wouldn't know that he was being suicidal," Sherlock banged his head on the widow, "And he bought lots of weapons like big knives and guns and a hat and he shot a snake but we thought he shot himself and then he wanted to eat the snake" said Ahsan.

Lestrade groaned loudly, his head in his hands. "I didn't know. I could tell that John cared more than he said he did, but that's been going on forever. I really didn't...and it was just dinner. I never would have said anything about Irene and Sherlock if I knew. I mean, I didn't think…"

"Oh shut up, Lestrade, of course you didn't think. When do you ever think?" roared Sherlock. "We won't blame you when John turns up dying or dead."

Lestrade groaned again.

"Well, I guess I have more faith in John than you do," said Mary Morstan. "He's been down before, and he always gets back up. And the John Watson I know, won't give up on his mission, no matter how upset he might be. So you can stop sulking Mr. Holmes; we'll find him, and then you two can kiss and make-up." Mary received the patented death glare from Sherlock's glacial eyes.

Mary survived the death glare attack and continued, "We will pool our information. You and Mr. Lestrade, for instance, don't know that John is almost certainly in Bhopal, India right now. And we might as well eat now too. Ahsan is starving, and he wants his temporary charge to eat too," she ignored Sherlock's disgusted sigh. "Mitchell, why don't you take this tray up to Captain Emerson, since she was good enough to arrange the catering for us. Ahsan and I will bring the rest out here."

After bringing out a platter of sandwiches, Ahsan handed Sherlock a cup of tea.

"I am not thirsty," barked Sherlock, his legs drawn up and his back to the rest of the team. His cut hurt, he was actually feeling tired, everyone was an idiot and John…

"Besides, I have these bracelets, courtesy of the detective inspector and his friend Agent Mengele," said the stroppy brunet, as he glared at said detective inspector from the corner of his eye.

"Oh for God's sake, the authorities were after you, Sherlock. You had to leave Bangkok. You wouldn't listen when Mitchell said that John had left Bangkok, although he could have explained it more clearly," said the detective Inspector loudly. "You wouldn't listen to anyone. We had no other way to get you on board the plane. Now give me your hands, and I'll unlock the cuffs," said Lestrade, with a deep sigh.

Sherlock held out his wrists without meeting Lestrade's eyes. As soon as the handcuffs were off, Ahsan put the Styrofoam cup in Sherlock's hand. The consulting detective shared a glare with his temporary assistant. Then he grudgingly sipped at the tea. It was good but not as good as John's, of course.

"It's not as good as John's," muttered the sulky consulting detective.

His comment was ignored by all.

"Now," said Mary, with forced cheerfulness, "we all agree that after Sherlock changed his mind and canceled his dinner plans with Irene," Irene met this statement with a bland smile, as if she didn't care. "he and Ahsan met up and spent several hours looking for John Watson without success. Fortunately, neither Sherlock nor Ahsan were involved with the unfortunate deaths of Dimitri and his gang. But while Sherlock and Ahsan were away, we made some discoveries. So Irene, I think it's your turn to share what you uncovered?" suggested Mary with false brightness.

"I assisted Mr. Lestrade with his data analysis, and I took note of several of the photos of John with his army "mates",' said Irene deprecatingly, "These photos include John holding a lovely Asian woman on his lap; he seems to be quite the ladies man, doesn't he?" She received no response to that comment. "Well, naturally, I assumed that the woman was a paid escort."

"You would," muttered Ahsan as he handed half a sandwich to Sherlock. "And you are to remember the horrible A and E in Bristol," he hissed before the consulting detective could throw the sandwich to the floor. Sherlock shoved half the sandwich in his mouth and slowly chewed it.

"As I was saying," continued the dominatrix, "I asked around hoping that the pictures might have been taken in Bangkok. Imagine my surprise when I found out that not only were they taken in Bangkok, the woman squirming on John's lap is actually a locally famous and wealthy model. Her name is Pailin, and she is now married and loathe to have that particular photo published. So I was able to convince her to talk with me. She and John had a little fling a few years ago. Surprisingly, she enjoyed her time with him; she particularly remembers John Watson's lewd dancing. Isn't that interesting? And she reported that John performed, well, apparently he performed quite well for her. The doctor has many hidden talents, doesn't he? They parted amicably, since each was pursuing a career. Pailin also identified the others in the photo. Significantly, the other woman is Alisa O'Brien, Pailin's cousin. Miss O'Brien, unlike her cousin, is not so successful. Miss O'Brien…"

"Yes, thank you Irene," said Mary Morstan, rolling her eyes at Irene. "We all appreciate your observations on the photo. Honestly, though, I'm sure lots of us have seen John dance, and belly dancing is not lewd, it is just a folk dance. Many men enjoy dancing in the Middle East. But, you know, if you think it would help in your line of work, maybe you could get John to teach you how to do it."

"I didn't know that John could dance. And belly dancing?" asked Lestrade. "Did you ever see him dance, Sherlock?"

"Yes, yes of course. He is very good. In fact, his dance is quite _alluring_," said Sherlock, glaring first at The Woman then back at Lestrade.

"Why am I the last to know everything?" complained the detective inspector, his forehead creased with frown lines.

"Because you're an idiot, obviously," retorted Sherlock picking tiny pieces off of his biscuit and making a mess on the floor.

"I tried to track down Alisa O'Brien," continued Mary quickly. "She is half Thai and half American, raised in California, and she served in the United States Army before relocating to Thailand. She runs a pawn shop and also dabbles in arms sales."

"Here's the interesting part," said Mary to the consulting detective who slowly sat up, interested in spite of himself. "She left town abruptly in the middle of the night. Her employees are tight-lipped, they won't tell us anything even after we offered them money. However, a nearby store owner saw a short, blond man in front of O'Brien's pawn shop yesterday evening. The man was wearing a huge read sweatshirt and pacing with a limp. The blond man entered the pawn shop, but my informant never saw the man leave," finished Mary.

"Using my boring local contacts, I tracked down Ms O'Brien," said Mitchell, who had returned to sit next to Irene Adler. "She booked two plane tickets out of Don Mueang Airport. She and her short, blond, male companion, named Joe Westfield, flew to Chiang Mai and then took a flight to India with one stopover. They were heading to Bhopal. I believe that O'Brien and Watson are working together. There's no evidence of any coercion. Furthermore, O'Brien has no history of kidnapping or any violent criminal behavior."

"According to the airline's records, Ms O'Brien and Mr. Westfield landed in Bhopal. Mr. Holmes, senior, has his teams searching the CCTV tapes for visual confirmation," said the handsome, black agent stretching his legs out and sipping his coffee. "So, it seems that we are closing in on John Watson and his ally, O'Brien. We should be approaching Bhopal in another three and a half hours. I think today's the day that we'll have our happy reunion with Captain Watson."

A/N Thank you to issyapir for her insights and advice about Thailand-especially the tuk tuks which seem to have been invented for Ahsan. All mistakes are, of course, my own.

Thank you to everyone who reads or follows this story.

Thank you to the reviewers of Chapter 5 including Wicked Winter, InuChimera7410, Sonia, cutestdiva1, Samuel E8688, I'm Nova, darkhearted243, power0girl and ANON. Your comments and support keep me afloat!

**Disclaimer**-I don't own the rights to Sherlock books, TV or movies.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N I am sorry for the Very Long Hiatus.** My other fic got in the way; I had writers block on this fic, and then this fic went and morphed itself into another genre...I blame John Watson and Sebastian Moran. So anyway, I had to completely rewrite everything from this chapter on, and then wait and see if I still liked it.

Somehow my wires got crossed and my adventure/romance sprouted some possibly_y_ supernatural offshoots. If this is a problem, I apologize and beg your forgiveness.

So as other authors say, please don't hate me, but don't read on if the thought of anything possibly supernatural bothers you. (Not as in the Series Supernatural, I'm not ready to try cross-overs. I'm confused enough with just one show.)

Oh yeah, some foul-mouthed John. So d...it, consider yourself b...dy forewarned.

**Chapter 7**

John and his business partner, Alisa O'Brien, crouched low, behind packing crates. The man-in-black had just passed them by, sweat gleaming on the sunburnt dome of his head He was walking quickly. Luckily for them, the man-in-black made only a cursory inspection around the rail cars, Sea-tainers and storage crates.

The man was obviously a CIA operative, even if John did not recognize him. O'Brien, on the other hand, was damn sure that the brawny, middle-aged, man had been part of Jones' Bhopal gang.

The man-in-black's steps receded rapidly, leaving only the distant sound of a locomotive running at the other end of the rail-yard, and they were left alone in the quiet, stifling freight area. The afternoon sun-scorched the train tracks , the cars on the siding and the couple that huddled in a thin strip of shade.

"Well hell, that answers that question," said Alisa O'Brien. "They'll be watching the trains, Doc. We can't ride them anymore, not without disguises."

"And you're stating the obvious," snapped John Watson, with a fierce scowl. O'Brien's dark, almond-shaped eyes narrowed, and she frowned from under her straw hat.

Watson rubbed his rough, unshaven face with his hand. "Look, O'Brien. I apologize," said John. "I shouldn't have snapped, and that bit about it being obvious; it's sort of thing that my partner and I...well, it's joke thing, sometimes..."

"Oh can it, Johnny," Alisa snapped back. "We're both tired and on edge. I guess I bit your head off back there, when you went after your stupid hat." She chuckled mirthlessly. "It would have been funny, you rolling around on the track, if there hadn't been a damn train coming." She sighed and turned to lean against the hot crate, pressing herself into the narrow band of shade.

"Huh," John grunted. "I'll admit, your colorful choice of words burned my virgin ears, Sag," said John, batting his blue eyes with a show of innocence.

"I thought I told you not to call me sergeant." The former US Army sergeant smiled briefly, flicking her long, black hair behind her almost in slow motion.

"And I asked you, repeatedly, not to call me, Johnny," quipped John. "Guess we can't always get what we want, Sarg." The short, blond man peered around the crates, making sure that they were truly alone.

He took off his hat for a moment, fanning himself. Despite his exhaustion and frustration, he was pleased with the fedora, which O'Brien had misappropriated from a hapless vendor last night. John no longer even felt bad about his new life of crime. Well, not very bad anyway.

He would have to learn how O'Brien managed to acquire these items so effortlessly. It was too bad that he had never let Sherlock show him how to pickpockets. Useful talent that, pickpocketing, for a career criminal.

The coast was so clear, it was downright post-apocalyptic, thought John. Not a soul in sight, hopefully the walking dead weren't around the corner. He slowly circled back and slouched into the shade, secretly hoping that he looked a bit like Indiana Jones. The soldier frowned, he was mixing up his movie and telly references just like he used to mix his metaphors. Not Good, not in JOhn's book anyway.

"It's like we can't shake these guys." muttered Alisa, pulling John's away from wool gathering. "When you told me that they're cameras and spies everywhere, well, I just thought you were paranoid. I see now, that you were right."

After all the running, train jumping, hiding and very little sleep, O'Brien looked her forty years. Dust caked the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, but John thought she was probably the second most beautiful person on Earth right now.

John resolutely did not think about the most beautiful person on Earth. He did not think about dark, curly hair. He did not imagine razor-sharp cheekbones. He took out his notebook, he had lost track of whether this was the fourth or fifth one, and scribbled out a few notes. In this intense sunlight, Sherlock's eyes would have been a steely blue, not that John was thinking about him, nope, not at all.

O'Brien watched her business partner and newly adopted 'brother' scratch in his notepad. He did that all the time. She pulled her ponytail forward and combed through it, "I guess we're both tired," she said, breaking the silence, "and it doesn't help that you can barely use your left arm, and my head is killing me. And did I mention it's hot?" she said, glaring up at the fierce blue sky. No clouds, nothing, except that she could just make out a jet flying way up, just a glint of silver in the blazing heavens.

"I did happen to notice that it's warm out, Sergeant," said the captain. "And if you're planning on sticking with me, which by in my professional opinion, is a very bad idea, you better get used to jumping on and off trains. It seems to be one of my trademarks."

He leaned over and cupped her chin; it was a very clinical touch. John re-examined her bruised temple and checked her eyes yet again. "I can't believe you let that man-in-black-wanna-be throw you off the train," said John. "Not at all the way I would have done it. You're lucky you don't have a concussion."

"Better to get thrown off the train, than get run over by one," she said.

John pursed his lips, it had been a bit close, but he really didn't want to lose his new hat. It made him look cool, and besides, he needed it to prevent sunburn and heat stroke. It was practical.

"And I did not get run over by the train, if I had, I wouldn't be offering you paracetamol for your headache," he said calmly.

She looked at him blankly.

"Oh sorry, Yank. Here take two Tylenols, and call me in the morning," said John.

O'Brien punched him in the arm but took the proffered medicine.

Thankfully, Alisa had shown no signs of any serious injury nor any signs of concussion, aside from a headache. Which was more likely due to heat, lack of sleep and stress. Oh hell, Watson, call it like it is. We're both suffering from heat stress, sleep deprivation and chronic fear bordering on terror, considered John.

In fact, John's head bothered him too. Actually, his head didn't hurt, not exactly. From time to time, his head buzzed; it was like he could almost hear a distant conversation. It was annoying. Probably the sleep deprivation. On the plus side, at least his wound infection, while still very painful, seemed to be holding steady. Perhaps, it was even improving.

He gingerly shifted his left arm in the makeshift sling made of acquired silk scarves, (acquired meant stolen but sounded nicer). Maybe the infection _was_ getting better, but his bloody arm hurt whenever he moved it. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on their next step.

The CIA tails had delayed their travels by at least a day, but Watson and O'Brien had made it to Jalandhar. So they were now less than an hour or two from Moran's old emergency bunker. Well, it would only take an hour by car. John figured that they'd have to hoof it, and so it would probably take all day.

At least this cache should be easy enough to find, since John had been there many several times with the Colonel and their team. He just hoped that Moran had left some clues, or, better yet, some maps showing the way to his secret cache of weapons hidden in Afghanistan.

While they were still in the army the Colonel, had stocked the abandoned WWII bunker as a refuge of last resort, should any of the team need it. John figured that Moran had continued to use the bunker, even as he ran his criminal enterprises. If he had, the Colonel would have kept the bunker secret from all but his most trusted lieutenants. The Colonel had had trust issues. The army doctor seriously doubted that Moran had kept any WMD's in the bunker. It would have been too difficult to smuggle them into India and why bother when he had at least two or three equally hidden bunkers in the lawless hills of Afghanistan. No, John did not expect to find the nukes, but, if he was lucky, John would find the bunker stocked with enough money, food, water and guns to supply the next steps in his search for the rumored WMD's.

John's new plan was to get resupplied, then get himself lost in the hills and mountains of South Asia, before searching for the caches. He cleverly called it plan N, or operation Needle in a Haystack. And yes, he _had_ written that down in his notebook.

Let the CIA or the mafia types try to find him in the wild. Ha! He'd only have to avoid the Taliban, and since he'd be alone by then, that shouldn't be too hard. Maybe.

"The underground bunker is eighteen to twenty miles north of here, O'Brien. It's not that far, maybe we should just walk?" he suggested.

"Johnny, we'll still stick out like sore thumbs. I still say we put on shalwar kameez and shemaghs.* Even better, we should travel as a pair of women. Who knows? We might even be able to ride on top the train again, once we're in disguise," said Alisa continuing her earlier argument. She drew her ponytail forward, carding her fingers through it. John knew that it was only a matter of time before she'd flip it back over her shoulder.

Privately, John equated her ponytail-flip with Sherlock's coat swishing and collar raising. They were all designed to make Alisa and Sherlock look cool.

And what did John have? Nothing, no super-cool quirks. He just had a stupid hat that reminded him of a stupid movie character. Well, Indy was a cool movie character and not really stupid. But that did not necessarily make John Watson cool.

And, to be honest, at least with himself, it was damned irritating to always have to be the little sidekick for these tall, sexy, super-cool people. Hell, lets face it, John had probably been Moran's sidekick in the Army. He'd have to ask David about that, one of these days.

Pitiful, thought the inner soldier, standing in the rubble of the damaged mind fortress. Captain John Watson, RAMC., was envious of his tall, cool friends. John forced his stupid, petty, little thoughts back into the dungeon of his mind fortress, because really it was time to move on.

"Right. We tried it my way, and it didn't work; so I guess we should try it your way, "said John. "I suppose we could get the clothes and shemaghs, and I suppose you can dress me up, however you like."

The former US army sergeant perked up at John's surprising agreement.

"Great, it just so happens that I have the clothes right here" she said, pulling handpicked pants and blouses out of her handpicked sack. Handpicked was another euphemism for stolen. Oh, well, a little larceny shouldn't matter to a hardened, criminal mercenary like John Watson.

The hardened criminal expertly slipped on a bra, and stuffed it with silk scarves.

"So, Johnny, it seems you've had practice wearing women's clothing before?" asked Alisa. She watched him dress and reminded herself that she thought of John as a brother. She did not admire the muscle's moving under his tanned skin. The scars were definitely not a turn on. It was fortunate, that the bra was rather silly looking on John. She began to chuckle and stopped thinking about what could have been between her and the Brit.

"I have had the experience, yes. It's nothing more than advanced, tactical camouflage," he said, with frost in his voice and a deep frown. He tried to make it sound like all soldiers routinely cross-dressed to complete their missions.

He awkwardly pulled the flower be-speckled shalwar over his head, muttering under his breath about bloody burqa boys.

* * *

It was 1600 hours and probably 41ºC in the scant shade.* It felt more like 50º C, under the scorching white sun, wearing the idiotic wig and scarf. John had no idea where O'Brien had picked up a wig. The damn thing probably had fleas, thought John, trying not to scratch his scalp again.

The two ersatz women, heads swathed in scarves, gazed with feigned interest at the moss and lichen covered remains of the kos minar.*

A few motor cars and buses passed them by, traveling the Grand Trunk road. The vehicles usually stirred up dust and often spewed a thick, black exhaust. A lone bull-cart, loaded with dry hay and a few bulging burlap bags, slowly advanced along the side of the road. The Sikh driver, wearing a white turban, did not even bother to glance over at John and Alisa. A colorful, highly decorated delivery truck sped past, obscuring the old, bearded driver, his cart and his bull in a cloud of dust.

John drank more water. He was not going to pass out again from cross-dressing related heat exhaustion. Been there, done that, thought John.* He tried to concentrate on the final leg of their journey, but several days of little or no sleep were taking their toll on the army captain.

"OK, from the kos minar," said John, with a sigh. "We have to cut cross-country to get to the bunker. It'll be better to wait until dusk, since it'll should cool down to a lovely 35º C by then." he said sarcastically. "Anyway, it's easier to sneak around in the dark. We'll rest here until around 1930 hours. I'll take the first watch…"

"No, Doc. You won't be taking a watch at all. You haven't slept for... well...actually, you've barely slept at all since we met. What you will do is try to take a siesta, and I'll watch. I'm busy making plans for all that money that we're gonna find. And don't forget, Doc, you said that I could have my pick of the jewelry," said Alisa. "Don't bother arguing. You are a business investment, and I protect my business investments."

"Look., I'm pretty sure about the guns and money, O'Brien, but I can't be sure about the jewelry. Jones mentioned jewelry once, and he may have been lying. Apparently, the idiot thought I'd be interested in Jew-al-ry," drawled John, trying to sound American. O'Brien smacked him for his trouble.

Before resting, John rolled up his left arm sleeve and checked his wounds. There was still a bit of yellowish discharge coming from the infected laceration, so he cleaned it, carefully staying out of the squeamish sergeant's sight. Wilting under the burning sun, he half-heartedly buried the soiled silk scarf dressing.

John was so very tired, but it would be nearly impossible to sleep. It felt like his scalp was crawling with vermin, and now there was that stupid on and off buzzing in his ears. Maybe he had Ménière's Disease? *

While his business partner lit up a cigarette, John rested his head back against the warm stone, trying to will himself to fall asleep.

Instead of sleeping, his mind began to wander again. John worried about the World's Only Consulting Detective. No doubt Sherlock had fallen under the spell of that witch, Irene, as soon as he got back to London. _(_'It's not nice to say things like that,'_ ,_ chided John's boring inner-doctor, from inside the shelled-out mind fortress.) John was unsure what he thought wasn't not nice, doubting Sherlock's fidelity or calling Irene a witch. Probably both.

Actually, John didn't care. Firstly, Irene was a witch and a bitch. Secondly, if Sherlock took up with her, then to hell with him. No to hell with both of them.

Thirdly, John could handle it. Gone was insecure, needy Doctor John Watson. He was now a soldier of fortune and a hardened criminal. He did not fall apart when someone broke his heart. He was Three Continents Watson, a man of the world. Actually Four Continents now.

Anyway, it was perfectly understandable, if Sherlock preferred the beautiful, young and very upper-class, two-timing, overpaid whore ('Oops, bit not nice there,' said the overly nice inner doctor). They made a beautiful pair. He rather hoped that the World's Only Consulting Dick got a broken heart _and_ a STD from the World's Bitchiest Dominatrix.

John imagined his old mates laughing at Three, no Four, Continents John Watson now. He could actually hear them. It was humiliating to be mooning over some bloke who forgot him so easily. Hell, Sherlock didn't even notice when he left the room sometimes. Bet he didn't do that with Irene "The Woman" Adler. It would serve Sherlock right if he did get hurt.

Oh God, if he got hurt, Sherlock might do something stupid. And John wouldn't be there to protect the idiotic genius during a danger night. John felt the firs,t faint stirrings of an anxiety attack and took some deep breaths. OK, he didn't mean it. He really didn't want Sherlock to get hurt, but what could he do about it from thousands of miles away.

Oh bloody hell.

John tried to stuff his concerns down into his mind fortress's dungeon; it was getting mighty crowded down there. Then he tried to clear his mind. He then stretched his stiff legs out, and stared out at the Grand Trunk, nervously biting his lip and scratching first at his scalp and then at his healing wounds.

John struck up an apathetic conversation with Alisa for a while. John talked about some of their mutual friends, including the Colonel.

Eventually the conversation fizzled out; they were both too hot and too tired to keep it up. Some insect was droning on in the brush, and the buzzing in John's ears was louder than ever, which really irritated John. It almost sounded like voices; he could almost make out some words. Weird.

Gradually, John's eyes grew heavier. The shimmering heat made the trees and traffic dance. He watched the passing trucks and cars.

He saw a figure approaching. It, too, shimmered in the heat and disappeared in the dust of a passing lorry... Ah, there he is again. A tall, rangy, blond man in fatigues and carrying a sniper rifle. John would have been worried except that he could see through the apparition, and of course he knew that Colonel Moran was already dead. So, no worries.

Obviously, O'Brien did not see the Colonel leering at them. Well duh, that was because he wasn't really there. He was just a hallucination, no doubt a manifestation of sleep deprivation or fever or heat stroke…or the herald of incipient septicemia…John yawned, not really all that concerned. Maybe it was… an unusual side-effect…. of, of his medications… or…he yawned again….and then finally he began to snore.

* * *

"Wake up Doc; it's getting dark out," said Alisa O'Brien, shaking John's good shoulder. It was sunset, and darkness fell rapidly. John risked pulling off his wig, although he left the shemagh around his shoulders for now.

John cautiously looked around into the dusk; everything was colored shades of indigo and violet. He was mostly relieved that the weird Sebastian Moran apparition was gone. Well hell, of course it wasn't real; it probably wasn't even a hallucination. It was probably just a dream.

John stood up, but his legs were a bit stiff, so he leaned against the still warm kos minar. The sky was orange, fading to pink and purple. Only a few lurid red cirrus clouds interrupted the expanse of indigo sky, that and a few swallows. Or did they have swallows in India? Well some kind of swallowish bird then.

It really was a tiny bit cooler, a very tiny bit. John popped some paracetamol and antibiotics. Naturally, the buzzing in his ears had started right up again. He'd want to get his ears checked out, when this was all over..

He looked around again. He saw no one except O'Brien, who cinched up the straps of her recently acquired rucksack and, of course, the traffic that still passed along the highway. The speeding lorries cast weird shadows around John and his partner. Since it was pretty much dark, John decided to remove the scarf and blousey shalwar too. The slight breeze felt heavenly, against his sticky skin as he removed the too-tight bra. John stuffed the bra, scarves and shirt into his pack. He ignored the burning from his wounds, as he pulled on a thin, tight tee.

John silently set off west-northwest.

"Hey dude, wait up,"called O'Brien. She ran to catch up. "Everything okay, Johnny?"

He stopped to look at her. In the falling dusk, her almond-shaped eyes crinkled at the edges, signaling her concern. John's brain was definitely feeling a bit too fuzzy, because of the heat and all that damned the buzzing. The mumbling and muttering sounds were really distracting.

The short, soldier concentrated hard before he mustered an answer, "M' fine, good. Yeah, good. Just a bit groggy." He flashed her a fake smile, so she wouldn't worry. They both drank some more water as they hiked through the brush and skirted a harvested field.

Yeah, not a very good answer, he thought plodding on in the dark. He sighed; this was all a bit not good really.

He shared a grimace with his old comrade in arms, Sebastian Moran. Moran was silent too, but that was probably because he was dead, reasoned John. Yeah, silence of the grave and all that. John smiled faintly. I should write that one down, he thought.

John and Alisa walked on in the gathering purple dusk. Their footsteps crunched in the dry grass, sometimes they kicked up little clouds of dust. John gave any buildings and most of the cultivated fields a wide berth. Only a few dogs barked a protest, at the man and woman hiking in the dark.

After a while, John allowed the Colonel to pick their path. Moran seemed to know the way and seemed happy to help-for once. The late special ops Commander had always been good at avoiding detection.

Insects chirped and buzzed and scritched as the shadows coalesced into night. Bats swooped overhead. Although he wasn't very fond of them in close quarters, such as subway tunnels and caves, John liked bats in general. Outside, where they minded their own business, the bats were fine.

Perhaps it was just because he only wore a thin tee, but it really did feel cooler, even if it was just a lower setting in the Punjab Oven, like bake instead of broil. Oh God, that's a good one, John took out a his handpicked notebook and pen and took a couple of notes before it got too dark to see. He always forgot these really good lines unless he wrote them down.

He pointedly ignored the Colonel's silent glowering, from where he stood, a few steps ahead of John. It figures, that the bastard's idea of haunting would consist of leering and glaring, thought John, matching Moran's glare. Of course, maybe Seb's mad because I killed him. Of course it was entirely justified; the bastard had killed Micky and Cam, and he was coming after Sherlock and me, for that matter. John narrowed his eyes and deliberately glared harder at the stupid hallucinatory apparition.

Shimmering stars studded the night sky, as they hiked past a sleeping village. John couldn't refrain from smiling in relief, when more of their old army team finally fell into step with him. They were much easier to get along with than the silent Colonel. He shot a grin at Micky who clapped a dark, albeit semi-transparent hand on John's shoulder. Damn that was cold. Fortunately, imaginary hands did not hurt sore shoulders, in fact, the chill felt rather good. John glanced obliquely at Alisa O'Brien. He hoped that he was managing to hide any reactions to the hallucinations. He really didn't want O'Brien to realize that her business partner was barmy. Not just yet, anyway.

"_Bout time you showed up, Captain_," said Micky, his dark face glowing faintly in the purple shadows.

"Doing the best I can, Sarg," said Captain Watson with an answering grin.

"Of course you are, Doc," said O'Brien, assuming that John was talking to her.

John exchanged wry looks with Sergeant Michael "Micky" Winston and Captain Stuart 'Stew' Collins. Stew held a finger in front of his lips. John gave a little nod; yeah, mum's the word.

It was good to have the team reunited at last, even if he could see right through them. And at least they talked to him unlike the silent Colonel. John picked up the pace, eager to meet up with Cam who had been assigned recon duty. In a few minutes, John could just make out Cam, who was floating over the dry brush.

That should have been very eerie, except that it was Cam. Cam was always an idiot; there was nothing scary about Cam…unless he had access to explosives, John smirked at that idea. He'd definitely need to write all that down as soon as they reached the old farmhouse and he could use his pocket torch.

Thank God, Micky, Cam and Stew were not giving John the silent treatment. They had loads to tell him, and in fact, they were all set to send him on another mission once he finished up at the bunker. He couldn't not go; not if David was in danger. But it was awkward. He wasn't too sure how O'Brien would respond to the idea. Maybe he should pull a Sherlock and just disappear. He decided to put off talking to O'Brien for now.

John tried not to laugh, when Colonel Moran wordlessly sent Cam off to continue scouting. He fought off embarrassing giggles, when Micky began to reminisce about John's driving lessons and the goats. It was good to have the team back together, one last time.

* * *

"Sherlock, please tell me why we have to stumble around in the dark when we can just as well wait until morning?" demanded Lestrade who walked with a limp after banging his shin against a hard brick or stone fence in the dark.

"Shut up," muttered the consulting detective. Then he continued on a bit louder, "You saw the foot prints in the dirt around that mile marker. They are recent; surely they were made today. There were two persons, with nearly the same sized feet but differing gaits. The slightly wider shoe prints almost certainly belonged to John. Obviously, I'd recognize John's prints. Presumably, the other prints belonged to his slightly taller companion, that O'Brien woman."

In the dark, Sherlock found it easier to hide his discomfort over John's choice of traveling companion. The chances of John reverting back to his comfortable heterosexuality multiplied exponentially with time exposed to that healthy, buxom, exotic, half-Asian woman who also happened to be a soldier. Dear God, it was a match made in hell.

_Of course_ Sherlock did not intend to waste another minute, before locating his errant blogger and reminding said blogger that Sherlock was vastly superior to any other potential companion let alone lover.

Indeed, there was no time to waste.

Look, Sherlock," continued the nagging detective inspector. No wonder his wife left him for her yoga instructor, thought the lanky genius. "...Sherlock, would you please do me the courtesy of listening to me?" Nag. Nag. Nag, thought Sherlock. "Aren't you worried about missing clues in the dark? What if we miss the trail?" asked Lestrade.

"I can follow the trail easily, Lestrade. I had years of practice, while on the trail of Moriarty's criminal web," said the consulting detective. "See here...broken grass stems and even a footprint, John's in fact. And right here, they spilled some water. We have John almost within our sights, Lestrade. Why would we wait and risk losing him again?" Sherlock's tone of voice screamed, IDIOT!

Mitchell grabbed Sherlock's arm. The consulting detective barely restrained himself from striking this new obstacle between him and his blogger, "Holmes we have to slow down for a minute. We are tracking two armed, former soldiers, one of whom you think is may be wounded…"

"I don't just think it, Mitchell. I know it, because I observed the evidence. We all observed the video feeds, even you, cannot have missed the extent of his injuries which, while not life threatening, would be very painful," said Sherlock with a sigh and a dramatic eye roll that was largely wasted in the dark. "Why do you ignore the evidence in front of your own eyes? Furthermore, we have fresh evidence. Whoever sat in front of the kos minar, partially buried a discarded scarf that was covered in discharge from an infected wound. The discoloration and smell leave no doubt as to the source of the stain."

"That was disgusting, and I don't know why the hell you handed it to me," complained Mitchell. He and Lestrade simultaneously curled their lips in revulsion.

"Which is why you should always carry gloves and sanitizer," said Sherlock to end that pointless discussion.

"You don't carry it, you make Ahsan carry it," said Lestrade.

"Only temporarily, I will give that job back to Captain John Watson tonight. He is Sherlock Holmes' assistant," said Ahsan.

"What does it_ matter_," whined Sherlock, tugging against Mitchell's grip and strongly considering the use of force to break free. "John is out there somewhere. He is injured. He may be sick." He may be assaulted by that Amazon O'Brien at any moment, thought Sherlock grimly. "I need to find him, now."

"My point, Mr. Holmes," insisted Mitchell, " is that we don't want to sneak up on them in the dark and risk getting shot. It's especially risky if Watson is sick or in pain; he's likely to have a hair-trigger."

"Yeah. You know, Mitchell has a point, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "And there's John's PTSD to consider. I'm sorry Sherlock, but under the circumstances, John is likely to be unpredictable. We have to be careful how we approach him."

"And John he was recently tortured," added Mitchell, "which increases the likelihood that he'll be unstable and paranoid. He'll shoot first and ask questions later."

"Yes, yes, when we get close, we'll announce ourselves; we can even give out calling cards. Everything you say, reinforces my argument that John needs me and that there is no time to waste," said the exasperated consulting detective. "Can we just go…"

Mary Morstan, who had scouted ahead with Ms Adler, ran up jogged back to them, "Come on then; we've found them. There's a house, a ruin really, on the other side of the field. We could hear their voices."

"Oh don't beat about the bush," said Irene, with unsuppressed glee. "It's Dr. Watson, we both recognize his voice, and he's with some woman, and I fear we've caught them at a bad time. We might want to come back later. From the moaning and groaning I can assume that they are in the middle of…"

"Now wait a minute, I told you I don't agree. I do not think they're getting it on in there." said Morstan, put out with Ms Adler yet again.

Sherlock tripped the brawny CIA agent, then pushed him aside . The consulting detective jogged toward abandoned farmhouse. This was exactly what he had feared. John had been waylaid by that militant siren.

He tore through weeds and tall grass, but was brought to a sudden halt by a womans groan, coming from the dark shell of a mud brick house. The ruin had no roof and one wall was partially collapsed, looking as if it had slumped over from exhaustion.

"Oh no, you must stop, Sherlock Holmes, you are all wrong about John Watson," said Ahsan in a stage whisper as he and Lestrade caught up the consulting detective. "I am sure he is not having the affair, Sherlock Holmes."

A woman's voice cried out into the night, "No, no wait. I'm not ready for you." She groaned again with effort.

Dear God, I'm too late, thought Sherlock.

"It's a bit late for second thoughts. I'm already in!" said John harshly. His breath caught, and then he groaned out, "Oh fu-uck."

Sherlock growled when a wide-eyed Lestrade grabbed a hold of Sherlock's shoulder.

"Look, Sherlock, you can't just go storming into that house, if they're…You just have to wait," said Lestrade. "God help me, you'll just have to sort it out in the morning"

"Oh, I disagree. Lets go in and catch the sainted doctor in flagrante delicto," said the Woman. "I think it's time to knock him off his pedestal."

"Oh no, John Watson will have a very good reasons and I will ask him," said Ahsan. They all stared at the ruined house across the, weedy yard, as John cried out, "That's it. That's it... No, you don't have to move. I can do it myself." Then John gasped loudly, almost as if he were in pain.

John had never gasped out like that for him, thought Sherlock, his heart twisting in pain. Then Sherlock swelled with anger and jealousy, yes jealousy. Sherlock would put an end to this travesty of sex. He would bring John to his senses.

The consulting detective turned, twisted and somehow freed himself, leaving Lestrade holding Sherlock's empty linen jacket. The consulting detective, followed by the team burst through the gaping door. By the light of a single pocket torch, a tall woman, who was fully clothed noted the observant detective, stood over a hole; with legs spread wide for support, she her straining arms held on to a rope. This was a bit unexpected, and Sherlock was momentarily nonplussed.

She turned. gaping and reached for her sidearm. The rest of the team pushed forward, as the rope slid out of the startled woman's hands. There was a loud cry, that was cut off by a sickening thud.

* * *

A/N I promise to update a bit more quickly this time. Honest. I am editing chapter 8 now.

Unfortunately, (or fortunately) there will be more of the possible sppoky stuff in chapter 8. But there will also be a reunion, if John can manage to concentrate on Sherlock long enough…

*41ºC=106ºF (for us Americans who can't handle metric). The typical daytime high temperature is over 100ºF in Jalandhar, India during summer( March-June). And, yes, I am, indeed, one of those weather nerds, but that's not important right now.

*35°C = 95°F.

*Kos minar-stone pillar erected by the Mughal emperors to serve as mile markers. A kos was a unit of measure approximately equal to 3 km. Minar means tower.

*John suffered mild from heat exhaustion while dressed as a woman in the prequel, My Apologies to his everlasting embarrassment he fainted in the arms of a stranger. Naturally, John blamed Sherlock.

*Shalwar kameez the tunic/shirt and pants worn by both men and women in many areas of south Asia.

*Shemagh- a keffiyeh or large multipurpose scarf issued to British Soldiers. In desert environments it is used to block sun, sand, dust etc. Of course, John and Alisa are familiar with shemaghs, but they would wear women's scarves over their heads while in disguise.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me over this long hiatus. (I know it seems like it was years ago. Sorry. I'm so sorry!) Thank you especially to those who reviewed chapter 6 including InuChimera7410, Dimavarien, I'm Nova, SamuelE8688, power0girl, Guest, ruvy91, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, Dakkira1, Sonia, darkhearted243, foxeeflame, EJ 12212012, issyapir, JOhnlocked86, Minnesota Fireball Wolf. You guys are the best! (I should probably say you girls; statistically speaking we're mostly all gals but that's just my inner Sherlock speaking...of course he wouldn't say guys or gals or even girls unless he was forced to discuss a female child...)

Disclaimer- I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N (Feel free to skip to Chapter 8 below if you hate silly A/N's).**

This is a repetition of my previous alert, and, since it is repetition, it is, according to Sherlock, dull. Nevertheless, somehow my wires got crossed and my adventure/romance fic developed a slightly supernatural flavor (**not **as in the televised serial). I apologize if supernatural isn't your cup of tea, but it might be fun: so, maybe give it a try. Sadly, there aren't any vampires or werewolves, although I'd love to write a vampire/Sherlock fic, because I love vampire/Sherlock getting it on with poor innocent John (or, better yet, hot, BAMF Hunter John-OH YEAH!)

But that's not important right now.

I know some people hate **warnings**, but some people have requested them. If you don't like **warnings**, please scroll down to where it says **Chapter 8**.

Now, for the **Warnings. **John continues to demonstrate his penchant for expletives. (i.e. he swears a lot).

"Only too bl—dy, f-ing right. The h-ll with those s-ing arseh-les," said the cranky hedgehog, who had just been awakened by a hyperactive otter in the middle of the bl-dy night

**Rated M** for expletives and kissing (I know that's sort of T, but the following chapters get pretty M-ish so lets leave the M in place.)

because, "Better safe than sorry," said the hedgehog, as the otter carefully opened the prophylactic with his sharp little teeth…Oops, also **rated M **for mature themes.

* * *

_Previously-The consulting detective turned, twisted and somehow freed himself, leaving Lestrade holding Sherlock's empty linen jacket. The consulting detective, followed by the team burst through the gaping door. By the light of a single pocket torch, a tall woman, who was fully clothed noted the observant detective, stood over a hole; with legs spread wide for support, she her straining arms held on to a rope. This was a bit unexpected, and Sherlock was momentarily nonplussed._

_She turned. gaping and reached for her sidearm. The rest of the team pushed forward, as the rope slid out of the startled woman's hands. There was a loud cry, that was cut off by a sickening thud._

* * *

**CHAPTER 8**

"Doc!" screamed the Eurasian woman. Of course, Sherlock instantly deduced that the woman was Alisa O'Brien, the pitch black hole was the entrance to the first of Moran's caches and that the horrendously stupid O'Brien woman had just allowed John Watson to fall a considerable distance, no doubt resulting in his serious injury or worse…

"John!" yelled Sherlock, breaking free of his momentary shock and trying to scramble for the edge of the abyss.

As the consulting detective surged forward, he was prepared to either fling himself in after John or wring the negligent woman's neck.

A small fragment of Sherlock's brain actually remained on-line, and it realized that Lestrade, Mitchell and Ahsan were all bodily holding him back, keeping him away from his John.

"Sherlock!" "Stop!" they all yelled over each other. "This is not going to be helping John Watson!"

Sherlock stood panting through his barely parted lips. The idiots, who restrained him, also kept yelling at him, uselessly.

The deductive genius noted that Irene had darted forward to keep the flailing fool, O'Brien, from falling into the pit. A waste of effort, the horrid woman deserved to fall to her death. Now the two women were both calling for John and shining a pitiful excuse for a torch into the Stygian gloom. They called in vain; there was no answer from the black depths.

Oh God, John was alone in the dark. John hated the dark; he'd be terrified if he woke up in the dark all alone. He'd be worried about rats and spiders. I can't just leave him alone in the dark, afraid and probably injured and in pain. Maybe he would remain unconscious until Sherlock was at his side. Obviously, John could not be dead; that was not an option.

What do I do. Sherlock would have pulled at his hair, except that those fools held his arms down. Think. Think. I'm a genius, for God's sake. I know how to think. So…how far had John fallen?

"How far? How deep is this blasted hole?" snarled Sherlock as he struggled to free his arms. "And we need rope and lights."

White-faced and still supported by Irene Adler, the O'Brien woman looked up, "It's. Um, it's deep, over 10 meters to the bunker floor, according to Johnny. I don't know…I don't know how far down he was before he..."

"Before you dropped him," finished Sherlock callously.

She glared and licked her lips, " I don't know how far he fell! He was suddenly in such a hurry to get down there, to find what he was looking for and then leave. He said he had to get somewhere else but I don't know… "

"It looks to be at least a couple of stories down. I think it's very large. Are we sure it's not a cave?" interrupted Irene, tugging on O'Brien's shalwar and pulling the former soldier back from the precipice again. "I can see the floor but I can't see Doctor Watson at all."

"Shut up!" Morstan's voice rang out in the ruined mud hut. "I said; everyone shut up!" She leaned over the edge of the pit, her face white and ghostly in the feeble light from their tiny pocket torches. Sherlock was ready to protest, but Mary held up her hand. "Really, just shut it. I think I hear, John."

Sherlock struggled to the edge of the hole and knelt down next to Mary. For the first couple of meters, it was a wide, rough-hewn, shaft. There were rust colored holes in the wall, presumably where a ladder had once been attached. Afterwards, the well opened into a vast dark expanse. Lestrade and Ahsan each kept a firm grip on Sherlock's arms, as they peered over his shoulders to look into the darkness.

John's voice was slurred as it finally emanated from the gloom, "…the fuck!" His breaths were heavy and wheezy. 'M fine… I said 'm fine…just the wind knocked out…Just leave go! Keep yur nasty, cold hands t'yourself, y'bloody, fuckin' sod," John growled, then he coughed a few times.

Relief flooded the consulting detective. John was alive, even if they couldn't see him. He wanted to call to John but couldn't speak past the stupid lump in his throat. Why was there a lump in his throat? I

t was very hard to hear what John was saying, his voice seemed to be getting weaker...or more distant.

"...can jus' stop," there was some muttering followed by, "don need you lot laughing at me…bloody fucking clowns." Ah. John seemed to be on one of his patented tirades. But whom was he yelling at?

Sherlock was confused. He hated to be confused and glared at everyone else as if they were to blame.

John continued, his voice echoing out from deep within the black pit. "Just shut the fuck up, Cam. 'S not funny…'course I hit m' fuckin' head; I hit ev'rything… Right. I'm almost fine….. It's too fuckin' dark in here. Bound to be spiders. No. No stop it…it's…" John's angry voice faded, as if he were walking away. "…_no_…_you_ shut up!…"

"John! John, can you hear me! Are you hurt?" the confused consulting detective finally called to his blogger. He received no reply.

"Who's down there with him?" Sherlock demanded, turning back to O'Brien.

She flipped her stupid hair back, clearly an insipid and irritating nervous habit. Then she shook her head in confusion. "There shouldn't be anyone down there, except Doc," she replied. Well, clearly, she was not going to be of any use at all, thought the consulting detective.

"…'S all your fault…Why don't cha ever answer 'y bloody buggering bugger… you and your stupid, hidden lairs…" John's voice reverberated in the never-ending night.

"John! John, I'm coming down! Stay right where you are!" ordered Sherlock. John didn't answer him. "Rope, I need rope."

"We only had the one," said that idiot O'Brien. "We had to tie them all together to make one long enough." She had the nerve to glare at Sherlock and to play with her stupid hair.

"You refer, of course, to the rope which you dropped when you dropped John Watson, practically killing him?" asked Sherlock acidly. "I hardly think that the rope will be of any use to us now."

'That was your fault. You startled me, barging in here, unannounced. You're lucky I didn't shoot you," snapped O"Brien. "Hell! I thought you were Jones again."

"Wait, Jones is here?" asked Morstan.

Sherlock ignored their useless conversation about Jones and hung his head down over the edge, calling for John.

"Hold it, Sherlock," said Lestrade, yanking the thin man backwards. "Mitchell has rope, he's piecing it together right now," explained the detective inspector nodding out the gaping door to where Mitchell was working.

"Well what's taking so long?" demanded Sherlock.

"I brought rope too, I'll go help," volunteered Ahsan, running out of the dark shell of the mud-brick house.

"Johnny? Can you hear me? Johnny, please answer me!" yelled the pretty, but patently useless, former US soldier. And didn't she know that John hated to be called, Johnny? Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust.

Once more, John did not answer; instead they heard him crashing into something.

"…damn my leg!..No, just ask him. I know he knows where the bloody torches are… Well he won't talk to me either…Will you stop shushing me! If you're so worried about it, go and have look, Stuart. Be my guest!" John's voice echoed in the cavernous space. He sounded agitated and was so clearly delusional. Sherlock ached to reach his damaged blogger.

"…Because my bloody torch is bloody broken, that's why!" John continued his irrational tirade all alone in the dark. "Christ, don't 'cha realize that I could be surrounded by poisonous spiders?...Well, BOLLOCKS! Of course that doesn't bother _you_, ya crazy fuck, you're already dead…"

"Oh dear God. He's gone round the twist," said Lestrade, with a grimace. "How long has he been like this?"

"This just started, after he fell. Maybe he hurt his head!" exclaimed O'Brien defensively.

"Well, he needs serious help. He needs to go to hospital." said Lestrade firmly, rubbing his aching temple. "This changes everything."

"It changes nothing," said Sherlock with grim determination. "I will evaluate John…"

"You aren't a doctor, Sherlock. John needs a doctor," said Lestrade sternly.

From the abyss came the sound of clattering metal. "God damn my leg!" John's voice seemed to be getting louder, "No! Dammit! How, the bloody fuckin' hell, could I hear anyone else, with you bloody lot going on and on?...People? What people? Where? I don't see any fuckin' people," John raved furiously. Then there was a long, quiet pause, followed by, "Oh." Then John muttered softly but quite distinctly, "Oh. I'm so fucked."

"John Watson!" "Johnny!" Sherlock and O'Brien practically screamed in unison. Then they glowered at one another.

"What?" asked John. He flapped his hands at the glimmering apparitions of Cam, Micky and the ever-glowering Seb. They were of no help at all. Hell, their glowing bodies, well shapes, didn't even illuminate the bunker. Which proved once and for all that they were hallucinations and that he, John Watson, was completely nutters.

"John if you don't answer me this minute, I shall descend without benefit of a rope," said a deep voice, not O"Brien. "And you know I mean what I say."

Wait a sec, thought John, was that… Sherlock?

"Sherlock? Sherlock? What the fuck are you doing here?" asked John totally confused. First John has to deal with hallucinatory ghosts and now his boyfriend who was supposed to be in London. "I thought you were in London, having dinner with that fuckin' dominatrix..."

"Alright, John. Everything will be alright now. Just settle down…" began Sherlock, obviously trying to sound soothing. Sherlock really didn't do soothing well, and it grated on what was left of John's already frayed nerves.

"I should have known, it was you. I bet you charged right in and scared the shite right out of O'Brien, didn't you? You almost got me killed again. You know that, don't you?" John asked, his hands on his hips, looking up at the small trap door that was barely illuminated by pocket torches. He could see two heads outlined in the faint glow above him. He could just make out their whispers echoing down the shaft, probably whispering about him.

Fuck. Fuck. What if O'Brien and Sherlock had heard him talking to these stupid hallucinatory ghosts, thought John? Of course they heard him. Fuck. They'll think I'm crazy and lock me up. Fuck. Fuck. Buggery fucking fuck.

"_They think yur barmy_, _ya poor bloody sod,"_ said Cam, floating down from the roof and as helpful as ever.

John held his two fingers up in front of Cam's stupid smiling face. Fuck.

'_Damage control! Damage Control"_ ordered John's inner soldier from within his partially rebuilt Mind Fortress. '_Ignore the obvious and_ _pretend to be normal!_'

Well, hell yeah, I can do that, thought John. I can do normal.

"Well, this is a turn up, Sherlock," John said nonchalantly. 'How did you find us…um, me…ahh… me and O'Brien? And so… yeah, alright O'Brien?" he ended cheerfully.

"Sure, John, sure. I'm fine," answered O'Brien, using the same soothing voice as Sherlock had used. John hated that tone of voice. "Listen, John, we're coming down for you. Stop wandering around, and just sit tight, okay? Everything will be just fine."

"_She thinks you're 'urt_," said Micky, using his soothing voice too. He scratched his massive bicep, which begged the question, do ghosts get itchy?

"_She thinks you're fuckin' loony_," added Cam chuckling, _"they all do."_

"Shut up," hissed John, shooting him a Captain Watson glare, and giving him another two-fingered salute. Stew chose this minute to return, and he reported on his recce. To begin with, everyone up top agreed that John needed hospital.

"Where are you hurt, John?" asked Sherlock

"Um, not hurt… I'm fine…Good. I'm good," answered John absently, trying to pay attention to the tall glowing strawberry blond who rattled off his Intel professionally and without stupid Cam-type commentary. Cam was really an arse sometimes.

in summary, there was a whole squad up there, and everyone knew that John had lost his mind. They were already talking hospital. Right. Time to take charge.

Captain Watson called up, using his friendly, professional, doctor's voice, which he felt was much more soothing than everyone else's. "So I'm trying to reconnoitre. You know, find Moran's weapons. I need light so I'm looking for the torches. That's pretty fu..., um, reasonable, isn't it? Yeah, it is. So, O'Brien, it's pretty hard to see from down here. Who the fu…I mean, who exactly do you mean when you say _'we'_."

Glowing Stew nodded approvingly.

"John," said Sherlock. "It's me, Sherlock; pay attention, John.

"Well, of course I know it's _you_, Sherlock; I'm not crazy." Not that crazy, thought John. "I just wanted to know who _else _is up there," John glanced at Stew, who had just given report. The very faintly glowing specter held up two fingers on one hand and three on the other. "You know, um…the other two women besides O'Brien and the, ahh, the three men."

"_No, no, no you don't give them details! Do you want them to know about us, John_?" said Stew, shaking his lambent head and frowning. It was weird to be able to see the team in total dark. Weird, but kinda cool too. John felt that he should be disturbed by all this but really couldn't be arsed about it right now.

John ignored the bossy apparition who kept telling him what to do, and his eyes suddenly narrowed as he started to match Stew's descriptions with some familiar faces. "You know, I hope that's not that fu..,um, that Irene Adler up there. No offence Ms. Adler."

Silence means assent. It was one of Sherlock's maxims.

"It is Irene Adler, isn't it? Really, Sherl? Really? Why the fu…the heck, didja bring her here?" asked John

Stew and Micky were both babbling at John and making it very difficult to maintain a coherent conversation. This must be what it's like when you have kids, thought John.

"Will you lot stop shushing me!" John whispered harshly to nobody.

"Who does he think he's talking to?" demanded Mary.

"I wanna know how he knows who's up here," said Lestrade.

"Hey Sherlock, we found…shite. Right. OK. OK. Ummm." John whispered the last bit. "I mean, _I_ know where the torches are. Just hang on; I'll be right back…" said John, his dim figure disappearing from view.

"No John, just wait…"

Crashing and cursing followed. "Damn my leg!" Lots more cursing. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of many of John's tirades but he had never used as many expletives as this. John's voice echoed distantly again. "Bloody hell!...Hey, Sherlock! Can you still hear me? I'm fine! I'm good!...Hey, Sherlock? D'ya think there's black widow spiders down here?"

"No, John, I think not," yelled Sherlock, with a sad smile. Then he looked up, glaring at the others. "What is taking so long for the rope? Perhaps we should send out a search party?"

John did not seem to be badly hurt, although his damn leg was causing problems. His initial slurring was gone and John almost seemed normal, considering he had fallen into a dark cavern. In fact, the small doctor didn't seem as worried by the dark as Sherlock had expected. But he clearly suffered from delusions or even hallucinations, and Sherlock needed to get to John immediately.

"Sherlock!" John's excited voice echoed loudly. "Hey Sherlock! We found…I found the torches. A dim beam of light appeared and began bouncing closer and closer becoming brighter and brighter

The torchlight stopped moving; then John shouted angrily, "Sherlock!"

"What? John, what's…"

"The CIA? Really? You brought the CIA here too? I can't trust them," complained the blond soldier holding a very bright hand torch and waving his hand dismissively at the crowding shadows. "Christ, Sherlock. O'Brien and I just escaped from Jones a few hours ago."

"John, how?... What makes you think that any CIA agents are even here?" asked a puzzled Sherlock, looking down at his illuminated blogger.

"Ahhh-ummm," Fuck. Fuck, thought John, biting his lip. I've got to shut the fuck up.I'm talking too much. Fuck! I can't just say my dear, and very dead friend was checking up on you.

"_Yo, Cap'n John,_ _jus lie_…_Just tell 'im you 'eard their voices_," prompted Micky. _"Hell, they were all yelling and screamin' their heads off. The stupid sodding Civies!"_

"Yeah, yeah, that's right," said John. "I 'eard their voices, I mean, I heard their voices" said John, pinching his nose. "And anyway, I don't trust Morstan or Mitchell and I, sure as bloo…sure as hell, don't trust Adler either. No offence anyone. And I _don't _want _any_ of them down here. In fact, I don't want anyone down here at all."

"_Tell 'em you need to recce, ya know, look for booby traps,"_ suggested Micky. He had always been the one talk them out of trouble when they got in to innocent mischief. Well, maybe innocent wasn't the right word.

"Yeah. No one comes down. Not till I've had a chance to recce. There might be booby traps and spiders," said John.

"_I din't say nuthin' bout spiders,"_ said Micky. A hint of his mother's Jamaican tongue was audible now that he was getting irritated with Captain John. "_What ya' so nervous for anyways?"_

"Well there could be spiders," hissed John, thinking the people above wouldn't hear. "You can just shut it."

"You can come down, Sherlock," said John, sweetly. "But, just you, Sherl. No one else. And hurry up; I'll be back at the lockers."

John jogged away, and his light disappeared from Sherlock's view. "Because I want to see him, that's why…" said John his voice fading away.

It made no sense. John was sharp enough to identify the team members just from hearing scraps of their voices, and that after he was dazed from falling at least a couple of meters. Yet at the same time. he was talking to some imaginary friend named Cam.

Cam sounded familiar. Not a family member. John had no family other than his sister, not even any cousins. Cam was neither one of his co-workers from the clinic nor a member of John's infrequent pub gatherings. So, perhaps an old military colleague?

Sherlock quickly accessed his rather limited information on John's military service from the storage closet in his Mind Palace. Ah! Cam was Cameron Forester, a Sergeant from Moran's special operations team. He died in a vehicular collision, just five weeks after John was wounded by the snipers bullet.

After The Fall and his reunion with John , Sherlock had enlisted the doctor's assistance to trap Moran once and for all. That was when John had finally revealed his personal conviction that the sniper's bullet in his shoulder had been fired by Moran. He was also convinced that the former Colonel had shot and killed Sergeant Winston and arranged Sergeant Forester's hit and run homicide. John also firmly believed that Moran had driven Lieutenant Charles Kingsley to commit suicide and that lieutenant had been the last member of the small, spec ops team-aside from Moran and John himself.

Although John knew about the Colonel's many heinous crimes and his involvement with Moriarty, John had felt some guilt over shooting his former commander and friend. Guilt that he did not feel for any of the other criminals that he'd had to dispatch for Sherlock. Sherlock found this a bit puzzling…

Sherlock was abruptly hauled out of his Mind Palace and away from the brink of the shaft.

"This'll hold you, Holmes," said Mitchell, who roughly manhandled him while tying a rope around Sherlock's chest.

"Wait a minute. Why the hell does he get to go down first?" asked O'Brien. "John's my partner. He trusts me."

"He asked for me, not you," Sherlock spat at O'Brien. Not wasting any time, he dropped over the edge. Groaning with the sudden strain, Lestrade and Mitchell caught his weight in time and began lowering the rope.

"We'll be right behind you, Holmes," said Mitchell grunted as he played out the rope.

"No!" yelled Sherlock, his deep voice echoing in the passage. "I need to deal with John alone." Sherlock gripped the rope tightly, to take the strain off from his healing chest wound. "Lestrade…Greg, give me a chance to talk to John. I cannot have everyone coming down all at once, especially the people he doesn't trust."

"Hell no, we all need to get down there, just as soon as Watson's disarmed," argued Mitchell urgently. "The mission is paramount, regardless of whether a single soldier falls by the wayside."

"You ruthless son of a bitch!" barked O'Brien, who was nearly drowned out by Mary Morstan's strident protests in defense of John. As he descended into the shaft it was increasingly hard to make out their voices. Sherlock reminded himself to keep a closer eye on Mitchell from now on.

Mitchell and Lestrade lowered Sherlock through the channel and into the large underground chamber. In the meager light coming from his small pocket torch and from John's distant light, the bunker indeed appeared cave-like. Perhaps it had been adapted from a natural cavern. It was nearly as big as a playing field, and the rough, uneven ceiling arched high above at the south end, where Sherlock was dangling. The floor immediately underneath the opening and to the south, must once have been used for storage with shelves stacked haphazardly against the wall. Now it looked more like a rubbish heap with broken crates, bits of furniture and a rusting pile that must have been the original ladder. To the north, the bunker was converted into a kind-of living space. A bunk area was still separated from the rest of the cavern by tattered canvas, and the bunks themselves leaned and sagged wearily toward the cement floor.

John's torch illuminated the northwest corner where the ceiling was lower. A few bare lights dangled, but, with no generator, they were powerless against the shadows. Standing next to the scraps of hanging canvas screen, were three bunks that seemed sound and still contained mattresses. Across from the bunks, a row of shelving and narrow lockers stood against the west wall; a couple of old tables and chairs were stuck in between.

A gun rack hung on the north wall, with an impressive array of guns and armaments. A few guns lay on top of the table, possibly John had already taken them down to be examined. Now the army captain was plucking old clothes out of a locker and tossing them behind him, as he muttered to himself.

The descent was taking too long, and John was so close now. Sherlock undid the knot on his rope and fell the last few feet, dropping lightly into a crouch.

"Hey, you alright Sherlock?" asked Lestrade when Sherlock's weight suddenly vanished. The faint buzz from the team's quarreling continued as the worried detective inspector waited for an answer.

"I'm fine…Greg. Just keep the others out of here…Please." It was difficult to call the detective inspector Greg, and Sherlock barely managed to get that last word out. It was not a word that he was accustomed to using, but it might be worth it, to get the detective inspector to coöperate more fully.

Sherlock ran over to his oblivious partner, who had just dropped some boxes of ammo into a large, worn duffel bag.

"John?" said Sherlock uncertainly.

"Bloody Hell!" exclaimed John, straightening and turning abruptly. John's face was thin and drawn. The circles under his eyes looked like purple bruises. In fact John's face carried a fair bit of actual bruising and abrasions, some more recent than others. John stepped back frowning, his eyes glaring up suspiciously from under his crumpled brow.

It was incredibly painful to have John's suspicion directed at him, thought Sherlock. John shifted his eyes and looked behind the consulting detective.

Seeing no one else, John relaxed and smiled radiantly, "Hey Sher-lock." He stepped a bit closer to Sherlock. The tall detective's chest tightened in the glow of John's special-only-for-Sherlock smile. "Hey, I meant to ask you, Sherlock; how the hell did you find me, here in the Punjab?

"Please, John, don't insult my intelligence," said Sherlock, his face a cool mask. "Of course I found you; I will always find you. I only regret that I took so long," his face softened almost imperceptibly.

The soldier actually smirked, "I knew you'd say that." John's eyes glanced to the right, sharing his smug grin with the wall.

When he looked back, the tall, dark-haired detective loomed directly overhead. John felt his breath hitch at the sight of his beautiful boyfriend and the touch of his oh-so-warm breath against John's skin.

Only now did John realize that he was chilled to the bone. He leaned forward, relishing the idea of sharing some of Sherlock's warmth. He froze a tiny bit when he remembered his imaginary audience, which was sniggering at John's romantic reunion. Stupid hallucinatory oafs. John's eyes narrowed as he tried to stifle them with a stern Captain Watson glance. It was a vain attempt, and they continued making their rude jibes.

Sherlock took John's rough, unshaven chin in his hand, running his thumb gently over John's jaw. John's skin was very cold and clammy. John had been down in this cavern for far too long already. The consulting detective bent down to kiss his shorter boyfriend. John didn't pull away, but he seemed distant, glaring at shadows.

The consulting detective tensed with parted lips, "John, is this…are we alright?" asked the detective with trepidation. He bit his lip but continued to rub gentle circles over John's scruffy face with his thumb.

Oh God, what if John didn't care about him any more? What if the military minx spoke the truth? Maybe she _was_ John's new partner, his new _heterosexual_ partner. No doubt John regretted his homosexual fling with the consulting detective. Sherlock began to feel sick to his stomach as John looked away.

John glared harder at Cam who was alternately pretending to throw up and making obscene gestures, while Micky and Stew laughed uproariously. Who knew ghosts could have so much fun? Naturally, it was at John's expense.

Sherlock's warm, living hand cupped his chin, and John leaned his face into the heat. He looked up at his tall, pale and sad-looking boyfriend. Of course, no one else but John would have been able to read Sherlock's sorrow in his carefully crafted mask. Fuck the phantasms. John needed to take care of his boyfriend.

John ignored the glowering colonel, who glowed malevolently in the corner, and he pointedly turned his back on the other three imaginary clowns to give his handsome lover the attention he deserved.

"Yeah, 'course we're alright, Sherl," John reached his arms up and around the taller man's neck, and he tilted his head back, inviting a kiss. He was rewarded with a soft, tentative kiss that soon turned into many hungry, demanding kisses. Sherlock's lips were warm and soft; John found himself snuggling into the taller man's arms seeking heat and giving up his heart in return.

Sherlock forced his tongue past John's defenses and ravaged his soldier's sweet mouth. John's arms had gradually tightened, pulling the two men close together. Sherlock held the back of John's head, his fingers buried in John's short, soft hair. His other long arm encircled John's shoulders.

They kissed until John felt Sherlock swaying, and he himself felt faint. He pulled his head back, panting breathlessly.

John sighed, his face buried in his lover's broad chest and one hand roaming through those wild, ebony curls. "You taste like tea, Sherlock," he muttered into the soft cotton of yet another button down shirt. Too bad it wasn't purple.

Sherlock huffed out a soft chuckle. "And you taste of cheap cigarettes, John Watson," replied Sherlock, as he gently ran his hands over John's arms, trying to catalog his injuries yet again. John's skin was still cool and clammy, still chilled by the dank air in the cavern.

"Hey, 's not my fault. We were short on cash, broke actually. O"Brien sort of acquired them," protested John. He tried to pull away. "So did you meet her, O'Brien, I mean? Did you like her? I thought you might like each other…but," Sherlock had tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in his patented death glare. "…but maybe not. Um she's quite nice, Sherlock and smart and…"

Sherlock silenced this nonsense with another kiss. The consulting detective had no interest in hearing about that O'Brien woman. He definitely did not want to hear that she was nice-Sherlock bit John's neck leaving a red mark that would surely bruise. He did not want to hear that O'Brien was smart-Sherlock sucked on the mark that he placed on John to ensure that it ended up dark and purple and visible to all and sundry.

Everyone, take note. John Watson is not available to anyone other than Sherlock Holmes. John was especially not available to smart, nice, former US army sergeants.

John had gasped when his boyfriend marked his neck. He didn't pay attention to his army mate's idiotic catcalls. Instead he put his hand on Sherlock's neck. He so loved caressing that long marble-like column flesh.

"And are you alright Sherlock? You looked sad…SHE didn't hurt you again, that Woman," asked John, his voice becoming hard. He worried about Sherlock's feelings more than his own. "Sherlock you can tell me the truth about that Woman."

'I'm a hard-hearted mercenary criminal,' John tried to convince himself, "I can take it if you love HER.'

"John, you're an idiot," growled the consulting detective who wanted to talk about the Woman even less than he wanted to talk about O'Brien. "Irene Adler means nothing to me, John."

Sherlock traced his long, tapering fingers over John's thin lips." Whatever you're thinking, John, I did not have 'dinner' with her, nor do I want to. And I assure you she did not, could not, hurt me."

John raised his brows, and Sherlock noted new lines had formed in his blogger's face.

Then the soldier raised himself up on tiptoes to kiss the lanky detective. He ran his tongue across his boyfriend's plump lips and then into his hot, sultry mouth. Sherlock moaned, and John pulled the younger man in tightly with his good arm.

"Hey Sherlock!" yelled Lestrade. "Can we come down now?"

The two men separated to shout "No!" simultaneously.

"Sherlock, I can't really see you. You sure you're alright?" asked Lestrade, his voice tinged with suspicion.

"Yes!" barked Sherlock in exasperation. Thanks to Lestrade's untimely interruption, his blogger had backed out of reach and now stormed closer to the trap door.

Incensed, John shouted angrily, "What are you on about, Greg Lestrade? Of course he's alright! What the fu…I mean, what the hell d'you think I'm going to do to him. The only things down here that could hurt him are poisonous spiders or ghosts!" John glared up, with clenched fists. "Oh hey. I'm just fine. Thanks for asking!"

'Look John, I didn't mean anything…" yelled Lestrade.

"Oh yeah? Hey, O'Brien, are _you_ okay?" asked John suspiciously. His fists planted on his hips.

"Yeah, Doc. I'm fine. I'm sorry you… fell. Are you okay." O'Brien's voice carried down.

"Sure. Easy as falling off a train, right?" said John easily. "So I need to locate…stuff, Sarg. You know? Stuff. So maybe you could keep an eye on those shifty CIA agents and that sneaky Woman…"

"I'm right here, Doctor Watson," said the sneaky Woman smoothly.

"There's that very sneaky woman," continued John, stiffly. "Her name is Adler, rhymes with adder. Watch her; she likes to make phone calls. And watch out for her hypos full of God-only–knows what kind of drugs. Don't let her make any phone calls or send any texts to criminal master minds, and don't let her drug anyone up." God, that Woman really set his teeth on edge.

"_You gotta admit, she's a looker_," said Stew, tracing a woman's curves with his pale, translucent hands. "_Must be bloody hard for her to breathe with those tight trousers on, though_."

"_From what Cap'n Johnny says, she's more a fucking' hooker, than a looker,"_ said Cam, laughing hard enough to choke. Except ghosts can't choke. Especially imaginary ghosts.

In spite of himself, John snorted at the offensive joke at Adler's expense, and then coughed to hide his amusement.

As always, Cam preened when he succeeded in getting John to laugh. As always, his huge muscles looked like they were about to burst out of his tee shirt, even if Cam was a figment of John's deluded imagination.

"Johnny, don't be so hard on Irene. She's been a big help. She's better'n that Mitchell," O'Brien called down. "And before you get your shorts in a knot; I promise to keep an eye on all of 'em, 'K?"

"Right, Sarg," said John. He chewed his bottom lip and then locked eyes with Micky and flicked his head towards the trap door. Micky gave a mock salute and disappeared.

Sherlock stood in the shadows, watching the love of his life alternately talk to Sherlock's rival and then talk to no one at all.

Sherlock sighed, he needed to get John Watson away from all of this and back to the safety of 221b Baker Street.

* * *

A/N Thank you to everyone who stuck with this story.

Special Thanks go out to everyone who reviewed Chapter 7, including adrichan, Johnlocked86, InuChimera7410, SamuelE8688, I'm Nova, power0girl, Minnesota Fireball Wolf, Quiet Time, foxeeflame, Wicked Winter, EH 12212012, jenpix

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK.


	9. Chapter 9

**WARNING** More paranormal nonsense. References to stalking. Oh yes, the colorful language continues. Blame John. So rated **M**.

**Chapter 9**

While he wasted his time sorting through piles of useless documents and bills, Sherlock kept watch over his blogger. Drifts of paper, which Sebastian Moran had stored in the old lockers, surrounded the consulting detective. He threw another handful of the worthless sheets to the floor.

The only surprise in all the paperwork was that the papers were good shape not rotted or chewed up by vermin. Apparently rodents, bugs and spiders had not made their homes in the abandoned bunker.

A few of the papers confirmed Sebastian Moran's prior role in drugs and arms dealing in south Asia, Europe and Britain, but there was nothing that would help in John's Quixotic search for Moran's WMDs.

Sherlock was no longer interested in that puzzle anyway. He wanted to take John and leave. It was time to get John the medical attention and rest that he so desperately needed. His poor doctor could use some food too. John had clearly lost more weight in the past week or so, thought the thin detective-missing the irony entirely.

Oh dear God, John was muttering to the shadows yet again, thought Sherlock, as the doctor ostensibly searched for a mysterious one-of-a-kind sniper rifle. Perhaps John's delusions would resolve if Sherlock took him back to 221B or even, heaven forbid, on a prolonged vacation far from stress and threats. While Sherlock abhorred holidays, he would embark on one in a heartbeat, if it might help John.

The soldier whispered and smiled at the locker. At least his hallucinations weren't frightening the poor man. In frustration, Sherlock dropped the last of the papers on the floor and yanked the last box out of the rusted locker. The box, covered with an old wool jumper, appeared to be filled with pictures and other rubbish.

John glanced at the huge mess that the detective had created and gave Sherlock an encouraging smile. And that, as much as anything, proved that his boyfriend had gone round the twist. After all, a healthy, normal John always berated Sherlock for making messes.

"_DON'T say anything about the mess, mate. Just smile and nod_," instructed Stew, who was very bossy, considering that he was just a hallucination._ "Right. From now on, John, please don't answer, don't nod your head, don't respond to me at all._ _Just listen, okay?_ _They all have you pegged as a lunatic because of us, so just play it cool. Now I have Cam up top, keeping tabs on that CIA agent, Mitchell. He's the one who's itching to get you into some psych unit in New Delhi. He's the one making all the phone calls. Cam will let us know if you have to make a run for it. And as an extra benefit, this'll keep you and Cam away from each other, because, as usual, you both act like schoolboys. Why you have to pick on each other, I'll never know." _

John wanted to protest and state, for the record, that Cam always started it. He refrained from comment when both Stew and Micky glared fiercely at him.

Stew, a former army captain, paced, just like he used to when he was alive and planning missions with the Colonel. He still looked tall and lean, but very fit. Well, fit might be a poor choice of words to describe a dead man.

His spectral red hair glowed like a halo, and John was tempted to ask Stew if he was an angel. He decided against asking the ghost about it. Sherlock would probably get that pinched, worried look again, and Stew would probably just get pissed off.

John pretended to sort the MRE's that he was packing into his duffel. He didn't really think that it fooled Sherlock, but it was worth a try.

Stew paced back towards John and continued his briefing, _"Now the Colonel has indicated that you have to move with alacrity, if you want to assist Chas. And no, the Colonel hasn't said a word. He never does, not even when Chas begs him to_. _Basically we all have to guess what he wants and if we're lucky he gives us hints. Anyway, I have a plan. I want you to distract these people using guns, money and jewels. While they fight over the money, you can make your get away and hike over to the monastery."_

"What money? What jewels? I haven't seen any signs of money or jewelry," whispered John, forgetting the Don't Talk to the Ghosts rule.

"_I told you not to talk back, you twat! Now your boyfriend's been alerted,"_ snapped the irritated spirit.

John didn't remember Stew being this bossy or this bad-tempered when he was still alive. Death did not agree with Stew.

_"Remember, you have to distract pretty-boy too, John," _said the grouchy ghost. John refrained from writing down his clever alliteration,_ "I know you'll want to take this Holmes with you, but that's not possible. It's obvious that he thinks you've gone round the twist..."_

Sherlock gently took hold of John's upper arm. "John, I wish you would confide in me. I know that you think you see someone there, but I assure you that it is just a hallucination. Brought about by sleep deprivation, chronic exhaustion, malnutrition and PTSD," said Sherlock bluntly. "

"_See, I told you; he knows, John,"_ said the bossy, redheaded specter. Maybe, thought John, all gingers are annoying, overbearing tyrants. A certain Mycroft Holmes immediately came to mind.* "_You can't bring Sherlock with you. He'll force you into go to hospital. He'll stop you from getting to Chas in time. Chas needs you, John. You can't risk it."_

John wanted to argue. He had questions. He felt the need to pummel his late army buddy.

"John," said the tall detective softly, his eyes clouded with pain. "John, at least look at me. Who do you think is there? What are they saying? Are they telling you to do things?"

John looked at his distraught boyfriend. Well, most people wouldn't see it, but John knew Sherlock...

"_Look John,"_ said the ghost with glowing red hair. _"I'm going to get the Colonel to show you where he stashed the money and jewels. That's when you let the others come down here, and, in all the excitement, you take a flit. Just remember to take your pack and your duffel, cause, unlike us, you gotta eat. And you should start eating more, you're as thin as a wraith."_

John sighed.

"_I thought you'd like that one,"_ said the redheaded wraith, smugly.

"John, how many fingers am I holding up?" asked Sherlock.

John sighed.

"_Oh for fuck's sake, Cap'n John. Forget Stew and his stupid advice and his even lamer jokes. Deal your man, before 'e wets 'imself,_" said Micky, pushing Stew out of the way. "_You're jus makin' things worse Cap'n Collins; now shove off."_

Who knew ghosts could push each other around, thought John, with yet another sigh. This tag team conversation with the consulting detective and the hallucinatory apparitions was confusing, to say the least. John felt quite dizzy from it all.

The doctor looked at his pale lover, who held up three long tapered fingers. And, un-surprisingly, John sighed.

"Really Sherlock? Okay, fine," said John finally answering the genius. "Three, you are holding up three fingers up…Today is Saturday, I think. Which would make it... the eighth. If it is Saturday, I have been rather distracted and without access to a watch or calendar. That can happen when you're running from the Mafia, and the CIA, Y'know? …And moving right along. David Cameron is Prime Minister, and the ruler of the universe is, of course a ginger, who happens to be named Mycroft. The thirteenth element in the periodic table is aluminum, and the fifth planet in the solar system is Jupiter and I bet you didn't know that, did'ja, Mr. Genius? Well, i think that covers general knowledge."

"I had coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and again for dinner. I didn't remember to eat, but I did remember to take my pills, which are due again in five hours. Unless I need paracetamol, which I can take again whenever I want, because it has been over four hours since the last dose, which by the way is 1000 mg or two caplets po q fours prn pain and fever. In fact, if this goes on much longer, I shall need the paracetamol for the massive headache I'm developing. So much for short-term memory. I remember that my sister is Harry, short for Harriet. I was hospitalized with a broken arm when I was eleven. I got to eat chocolate ice cream in bed, and a_ very_ nice nurse named Sadie, who had fake blond hair, gave it to me. And I felt safe in the hospital but worried about Harry being alone with our Dad. The first time I had sex was with a girl named Bambi, and not a word, _not a word from you,_ about her name. She was a lovely girl. The sex sucked, but I was 18 and at that age, I thought any sex was great sex. Last I heard, she was working as a paralegal and had had two babies. So much for long-term memory."

"Shall we test my muscular coördination?" John closed his eyes and touched his fingers to his nose. He opened them and his eyes followed his finger. Yes, that was cheating the test since it was his own finger, but whatever.

John was cold tired and worried. Worried about his sanity, worried he was going to lose Sherlock, worried that the ghosts were actually real and worried about Chas.

Oh dear God, what if the fucking ghosts were real? That is probably a sign of my worsening delusional state, thought John,

John hopped on one foot, then the other one. He walked on his toes and then his heels. WIthout warning, the thin-lipped consulting detective forcibly swung his blogger around to face him.

"Shall we next test rapid alternating movements and then my reflexes. And then, I dunno, I guess that'll cover it? " said John fiercely, glaring in the dim light from the torches.

"You forgot pupillary responses, John," said Sherlock softly, dangerously, looming over the soldier. He still held John's arm tightly, reining in his anger with visible effort "Never mind, John. When you are ready to trust me, I'll be right here."

John crossed his arms, and tried not to wince when that pulled a bit too hard on his left arm. "I'm fine, Sherlock. I really am fine."

John turned his back on his so-called friends who wanted to take him away from Sherlock Holmes. "Come on, let's finish with that box of crap, and then we'll find the vault."

John was suddenly awash with guilt. This wasn't fair to Sherlock. None of it was Sherlock's fault. Sherlock shouldn't even be here in this God-awful mess.

Wordlessly, the blond captain put his arms around the tall, lanky man next to him and held him close.

Sherlock let the smaller blond hug him. John was shivering; his skin was cold and clammy. "John you have to get out of this dank cave, you're shivering," said the detective.

"Well the sooner we sort out those papers…" began John, who studiously ignored the fierce glare coming from Moran. The silent specter suddenly loomed in front of the couple. John and Sherlock passed right though the imaginary ghost's body. As usual John shivered from some kind of hallucinatory chill. Sherlock shivered too.

Now that was weird. Why on earth would Sherlock react to my hallucination, wondered John?

John was gradually becoming just a tad bit...disturbed by this whole phantasm thing. Sherlock should not have shivered, hell he was shivering almost as much as John as he drew the smaller man in under his protective arm.

These stupid ghost are hallucinations. They are an elaborate projection of my subconscious trying to adapt to stress and trauma. My own mind made them up to help complete the mission.

They are imaginary, like Harvey the giant rabbit, John firmly reminded himself.

But then, why was he listening to them and planning a rescue for Chas based on their paranormal advice. John began to chew on his lip.

"John, I will give you ten minutes," said Sherlock, drawing John out of his funk. "Then you have to go up and get warm. In the meantime put this jumper on," said the detective holding up an old, large military issue jumper.

"Hey, that was Stew's," said John glancing over at Stew who smiled. John drew the musty smelling jumper over his head. It was huge on him, but it was warm. And it had belonged to one of his mates; it was comforting.

"Yes? Well, the jumper was in this last box, which contained memorabilia. This sweater, a book, a knife, some postcards even… and pictures John," said Sherlock. He took his blogger in his arms and held John's small, shivering body against himself. His large hands rubbed soothing circles over John's back. He began speaking carefully, "John, would it surprise you to know that, with possibly four exceptions, all of the pictures in the box are of you?"

"What?" asked John with a muffled voice. Despite some ribbing from his mates, he had snuggled into Sherlock's sure grasp.

"There are well over one hundred photos, John. All are several years old. Some are group shots, but in those cases, you are always one of the group. All of the other pictures are of you. All of them. I must admit you look very handsome in your uniforms and _fatigues_, as I believe you called them once." There was a trace of fond amusement in Sherlock's voice.

"You're joking. Pictures of me?" asked John in a small, unusually vulnerable voice. He burrowed into Sherlock's toasty embrace, absorbing the heat the taller man gave off. John rested against Sherlock's broad chest, feeling Sherlock's living chest as it rose and fell with each breath.

John closed his eyes, just for a minute. And he listened to his lover's reassuring heart beat. Who really cared about some old pictures? John was tired and cold. When the detective continued speaking, his rumbling voice reverberated in John's ear. John sighed with relief and clung even tighter.

"Yes John, pictures of you. Pictures of you working, visiting with patients, pictures of you in combat. For God's sake, combat." Sherlock did not share the feelings that those photos engendered, distress over the danger John had faced and arousal at the way John faced it. The detective hugged John tighter, even though it made the cut on his chest ache. "There's a picture of you with a sniper's rifle in the middle of nowhere, a picture of you wounded-just a cut on your scalp but it bled a lot. I have often wondered when you had gotten that scar...There's you in the dining area..."

"Mess tent, Sherlock," corrected John absently; his fuzzy mind was coming back on line. What he hell? Pictures of John Watson?

"Pictures of you reading, playing cards, sleeping, showering and…"

"Bloody fuckin' hell! In the...in the bloody shower…" John was now fully awake but could not get the words out. He tried to pull away from the consulting detective.

"Yes, John, in the shower. Indeed, there are a few pictures taken while you copulating," said Sherlock.

"I'll kill him," announced John irrationally. "I'm going to kill Moran."

"_Cap'n John. Jus take it easy. He's dead already,"_ said Micky. The apparition stood with his massive arms crossed and glared at the Colonel, who glared back defiantly from a dark corner.

"John, you already killed him," Sherlock reminded his blogger.

"I'll bring him back to life. And then I'll kill him again!" threatened John harshly.

"John, you can't exact revenge on a dead man. And remember, you're the one who ended his machinations once and for all. But it is worth remembering, John, that Sebastian Moran was untrustworthy," said the consulting detective. "You said that he was responsible for the deaths of your team, and he tried to kill you twice. Now we see that at one point, he was virtually stalking you. Surely, even if you _thought_ that you _possibly_ heard his voice, you would not trust it," said Sherlock shrewdly.

The doctor stiffened. Fuck. He knows. Of course Sherlock saw right through John Watson. Hell, he probably read my mind, thought John.

"_Just agree with him,_ suggested Stew. "_He's mostly right anyway, John."_

"Yeah, well… well, I can honestly say I don't hear Moran at all, Sherlock," said John, dry scrubbing his clammy face. "And you're quite right, I wouldn't trust him, not for a bloody, goddam minute." John managed to imitate a Sherlockian death glare, and sent it straight to his former colonel.

"Good. I surmise that your injury and subsequent discharge from the arm forced Moran to stop his stalking. said Sherlock, steepling his fingers under his chin. The imaginary ghosts stared at his posing."He did not continue to stalk you, and perhaps that was due to his relationship with Moriarty. Perhaps, Moriarty insisted that Moran stick to the activities that Moriarty ordered."

John watched the colonel's face fall. He become haggard and older looking. It's not as though a ghost, even an imaginary ghost, had blood and could become pale…Still, Moran was clearly upset when Moriarty was discussed. Not scared or even angry, he just looked…sad. Oh God, the damn ghost missed the psychopathic madman.

In spite of his resentment, John still felt sorry for the his former commander.

"I think Sebastian cared about Moriarty," said John softly, watching the imaginary phantasm. "I think he even sort of loved Moriarty."

"Evidence, John?" asked Sherlock sternly. "I've warned you about making wild suppositions that are not based on a firm foundation of fact."

"The stalking stopped for some reason, Sherlock," said John. "I think he lost interest in me…" John stopped talking, because Moran was staring at him and shaking his head in denial. Holy crap, the hallucinatory ghost was looking at John longingly. John found himself crowding into the taller detective. This was all just too damn much.

Sherlock pulled John in close again, "Well, I suppose that is a possibility, John. Moran could have had a romantic interest in Moriarty, but there so easily could have been other explanations too." The detective ran his warm hands over John's jumper clad back and rested his chin on John's head. John's normally soft hair was matted. He made a mental note to see that John was properly bathed in the very near future.

Normally, John would have been irritated at the detective's patronizing tone, however, he was really creeped out by the colonel leering in the shadows. Instead he let Sherlock reassure him; he once more buried his face in the firm, warm chest in front of him. On top of everything else, John Watson was sick and tired of being so bloody cold.

"_John,"_ said Stew. He frowned when John turned to him with a baleful glance. _"Hey, sorry to interrupt. And don't look at me like that! I never knew a thing about those photos. I never even saw Seb with a camera, and he was my best friend," _John just glowered from his safe harbor._ "Look, we'll deal with this picture debacle later. You have other problems to worry about. You have to 'find' the money so you can finance the rest of your mission and so that you can distract your so-called friends. Well, sorry again mate, these friends of yours have pretty much agreed that you need to go to hospital. According to Mitchell, even pretty-boy there wants to send you away. So can we just move on, please?"_

John risked a tiny nod to Stew, Micky and the recently returned Cam. With his blogger tucked close into his side, Sherlock quickly finished sorting out the box of 'mementos'.

Pacing right through the table and the boxes on top of it, Stew continued, "_Right, good man, Captain Watson. So, start by telling Holmes that you've ascertained the location of the concealed vault."_ The tall specter leaned over John, making him shiver even more.

"Um, Sherlock? I've ascertained the, um, location of Moran's concealed vault," said John, pushing up against the detective. He splayed his icy hands over Sherlock's sides to warm them.

"Ascertained the location of the concealed vault?" repeated Sherlock, looking down at the smaller soldier.

But Sherlock hates repetition, thought John.

"Since when, do you use words like ascertained?" asked the World's Only Consulting Detective. He examined John as if he were a new species of fungi.

Oh. Fuck, thought John.

"_Tell him you're well versed in rhetoric and capable of eloquent speech," _suggested Stew.

"I'm well versed in, in rhetoric and elegant...I mean,eloquent speech?" parroted John uncertainly. John frowned; he deduce from Sherlock's quirked eyebrow that John Watson was well and truly fucked.

"John, that doesn't sound like you at all," said Sherlock. "I would like to know why you are talking like this." Sherlock held the shorter man out at arms length and his gaze running up and down John's body.

Bloody fucking hell, he's deducing me, thought John. It was impossible for John Watson to hide things from Sherlock Holmes.

"_Okay, now tell him…"_ began the tall glowing Captain.

"_Shut up, Cap'n Stuart,"_ snapped Sergeant Micky Winston, bucking command structure, _"You're confusin' John and makin' things worse b'tween 'im and 'is man. You best go up with Cam and keep an eye on that Mitchell. And Doc, tell your boyfriend you're smart, but for God's sake, use your own words."_

John took a deep breath, "I did go to Uni, Sherlock," said John. "I do know lots of big words. As you may recall, I was a doctor. Doctors know lots of big words, like meningococcal septicemia or arteriovenus malformations. I'm even familiar with the words ascertain and rhetoric. Now, can we stop fussing about my vocabulary and finish up down here."

"Yes, John," agreed Sherlock, as his shorter boyfriend tugged his hand toward the southern side of the bunker. "But John, my point is that you are using words that are outside your typical lexicon…"

"Fine, I used a big word. If it bothers you, I'll stick to little words and leave all the big words for you," snapped John. "Lexicon, my arse…" he muttered.

Lestrade interrupted, just as soon as he saw the lights from their torches. ""Boys, I've been patient, but enough is enough. Look, I'm coming down there…"

"NO!" John yelled. "Hell no! You can't come down. Not yet. Um, Sherlock has t'get all these…we have to, um…"

"Collect evidence. I need to collect evidence, Lestrade," Sherlock called out smoothly. "The evidence could be crucial in analyzing Moran's motives, allowing me to deduce where he hid his armaments. In addition, John and I are still looking for booby traps."

"Yeah, there could still be booby traps. It's still too, um, risky. Yeah, so ten minutes, Greg," said John. "Just give us ten, fifteen minutes, tops." John sighed, and gave Sherlock a grateful little smile.

Sherlock preened under John's admiring gaze.

The partners walked around piles of rubbish.

The army captain's eyes followed the apparition of Colonel Moran as he sauntered over to a pile of four or five shattered crates. Stupid smug ghost, thought John, still very disturbed by what those pictures represented.

It was painfully obvious to Sherlock, that John thought he saw something or someone moving in the shadows. Yet John also had enough insight to know that it was not real, and thus he tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide his hallucination. Sherlock had no idea how to proceed with John. Admittedly, Sherlock felt that he should try convince John to seek medical care, but he also couldn't force his blogger into anything-that was a given.

"John are you certain there is a vault? Have you even seen it before?" asked Sherlock, surveying the rubbish and debris uncertainly. So far the vault had eluded Sherlock's sharp scrutiny.

John pursed his lips, considering. "No," said John finally, shaking his head. "I don't think the vault was built, the last time I was here but..."

"_No, no, no, John!" _said Micky, scowling. "_You hav'ta say 'yes'! 'Yes, I remember where it was'. Otherwise you're gonna hav'ta explain how ya find it!"_

"Oh! No, no I mean, um, yes. Yeah, I guess I sort of remember it being over here?" said John, confused with all of this ghostly advise on top of his conversations with Sherlock. "In fact, I, um. I think it's right here, under this pile of crap." John leaned his elbow on the pile of crates. Naturally, the pile gave way and John stumbled through Moran's ghost and then into his boyfriend. Sherlock caught John by his arms with a tight-lipped grimace.

John bit his lip to hide the pain in his arm and his sudden chill. Micky smacked his face with his palm and hissed at John. The smaller soldier pulled out of Sherlock's reach and then knocked the rest of the crates away, revealing a grate built into the floor. John looked blankly at the grate and twitched his lips in frustration. Now what? He looked up at Micky, who shook his head. The damn Colonel just grinned evilly. Stupid bloody ghost, maybe this was Moran's sick idea of payback. Making John pay for having killed Colonel Moran. Bloody bastard.

John looked up at his partner. "Um, I guess this is it, Sherlock, but I'm not…quite sure… how it opens."

"John, have you or haven't you seen this before?" demanded Sherlock sternly.

"Maybe. My, um…my memory is um…" stuttered John, rubbing his head. "Well, maybe, I saw it once for a few seconds…but I never saw him, I mean bloody Moran, open it," he said after some prompting from Micky.

Micky was always the one who had talked John and himself out of trouble. Like the time when they stole the case of beer from the Yank's CO, and then there was the time when John tried to learn to drive a jeep and hit the goats. John shuddered. To this day, John couldn't abide the taste of roasted goat. Micky hissed and regained John's flagging attention.

Sherlock had knelt down, and now he studied the rusty grate with his torch. He noted that the grate covered a pipe, which in turn, seemed to be blocked off. Ah, there were scratch marks, some fairly deep, but only along this one side. Simple.

"Here John, you need to pry it up with a lever,' said Sherlock, pointing to the scratches.

"Brilliant, Sherlock," John grinned proudly at the genius. The army doctor scrambled through the detritus, searching for a lever in the refuse. He soon found a couple of pipes and a wooden table leg that might work. It was surprisingly easy to pry up the grate with the bit of pipe. The grate flipped over backwards, bringing up its false cement floor and a short piece of pipe with it.

Underneath was a large safe.

"Oh fuck," exclaimed John. "Of course, no one knows the combination!" He narrowed his eyes at the Colonel, who shrugged as if he were bored. John wanted nothing more than to punch the glowing wanker in his translucent face.

Sherlock sighed, reached in, turned the tumblers and opened the safe.

John stared in open-mouthed admiration at his brilliant boyfriend. Micky looked impressed too, but the Colonel skulked back into the shadows. "That's extraordinary, Sherlock! How did you know the combo?"

"Child's play, John," sighed the genius. "The combination is 5646, which is alphanumeric for J-O-H-N. Obvious, given that treasure trove of pictures."

John felt his face fill with heat. Maybe no one would notice his blushing in the dim light. Then he thought of something worse.

"Oh my God, Sherlock! What did you do with all those bloody pictures? I don't want anyone to see …"

"Taken care of, John. I put most of them in your duffel. I kept a few as evidence."

"Evidence? Evidence? Why would you need photos of me for evidence?" asked John suspiciously.

"John, surely you know my methods by now," lied Sherlock, smooth as silk. John did not need to know that Sherlock had kept aside a few pictures that John might not approve of. However, the consulting detective found them hot, very hot. So hot, that he'd like to ravage John Watson soon, very soon. In the dark, John didn't see Sherlock's eyes dilate with desire.

"I must understand Moran's mindset, John," continued Sherlock, with mock innocence. "I must understand all his motivations. I need to, as you so eloquently say, 'learn what makes him tick', yes? Only then will I be able to deduce where the weapons are."

"Be a hell of a lot easier, if he'd just come out and tell me," muttered John. Once again, John fell for Sherlock's misinformation.

"John may I remind you that Sebastian Moran is dead. And dead men don't talk," said the consulting detective

"Yeah, I meant…" stuttered John. Quick, change the subject, directed John's inner soldier. John grabbed the satchel out of the vault and opened it. "Bloody Hell! Sherlock, just look at all this money." Stacks of money filled the brief case. There were mostly US hundred-dollar bills in the satchel, but there were stacks of rupees, pound notes, Euros and even some currency that John didn't recognize. All were in large denominations.

John quickly shoved some rupees and several stacks of American dollars in his pockets and in his heavy duffel bag. Sherlock tilted his head watched his normally honest blogger blithely steal some of the money.

Then, John seemingly lost interest in the money and shoved the still very full case to the side. He reached into the safe pushing some files to the side. John snagged a cloth bag that was full of something heavy. Then he froze, literally, when Moran reached around him. The colonel was embracing John with one arm and pointing to a flat leather case at the bottom of the safe. A gun case. _The gun case_, thought John, teeth chattering.

John pulled out the leather gun case. He carelessly tossed the heavy cloth bag aside with his trembling hand, and it landed on the floor, near the satchel full of money.

John opened the case while Moran hovered over his shoulder. Nestled inside was Moran's personal, hand-tooled sniper rifle. It was modeled after an L115A3, but most of its components were made of titanium, making it strong but lightweight. Moran had designed the gun himself with a gunsmith and ordered it though Alisa O'Brien.

John had only touched the gun once; Moran had allowed his subordinate the honor of firing the special weapon just the one time. As far as he knew, John was the only man accorded that honor. Maybe, thought John, that should have been a clue…but he really hadn't thought that Moran was interested in him. And he certainly hadn't been interested in Moran. Hell, I wasn't even gay back then.

That reminded John of Sherlock. The doctor flashed a blinding smile at the detective, then turned his attention back to the sniper rifle.

"A sniper rifle, John?" Asked Sherlock, apparently frowning as he felt some of the chill from John's imaginary ghost. John was not sure how that was even possible.

"Yeah, this is it. The Colonel's own rifle. He had it made to his own specifications, I never knew where he got the money to pay for it," said John softly, caressing the frigid components. "Yeah, I…I guess I assumed it was from his savings and from his winnings at the table. Moran almost always won at poker. Y' know, I guess I helped pay for this baby. Moran ended up with most of my paychecks 'cause he always beat me at cards. He cheated, y' know?" John allowed himself a fixed angry stare at the tall, blond colonel who drifted away, glowering.

"_Cap'n John, get the ammo out of there and lets get a move on,"_ said Micky shaking his head. He'd never been a serious gambler, and he didn't love guns like John and Sebastian. But he had loved fighting and he had been very, very good at it. Until the sniper's bullet found it's way into his head. And now there was a final mission for him and his mates to complete. But they needed John Watson's help.

"John, you need to leave this cavern at once. I think you're becoming hypothermic," ordered Sherlock, tugging John close to his chest in a vain attempt to warm him. "John you're shivering, you lips are blue and your skin is like ice. We are going now."

"Wait a just a second, Sherlock," John picked up the bag he had dropped; he dumped a handful of gold chains, gold bangles and both loose and set gems into his hand. John dropped them haphazardly onto a teetering table and dropped a couple stones as if by accident near the safe. He pocketed the rest.

Trying to control his shaking hands, John reached in and grabbed the files and began sorting through them quickly. Some looked promising. They detailed some of Moran's more recent actions with the other south Asian crime bosses and there were references to specific locations in Afghanistan.

"John, you need to come away," insisted Sherlock, who firmly pulled on John's arm.

John crammed the potentially interesting files in the duffel bag with the gun case and the box of ammo from the safe. John would have to repack the whole bloody bag, because it was really too heavy to drag on a three-day hike.

"Okay. Okay. I'm done," he said, turning into Sherlock's warm hug. He looked up at that beloved face with it's sculpted cheekbones. The pale blue eyes were dark, almost a gun-metal grey. The torch-light glittered in his eyes.

"Sherlock," said John softly, his arms wrapped around a thin but very warm waist. "Before I do anything else, I'm going to have to look for someone, a friend who might be in trouble. I don't know what you…"

"John, I would prefer to have this discussion up top. You are shivering uncontrollably…"

"Actually, I won't discuss it up top, because I don't trust most of those people up there," said John his voice hardening.

"Alright, John, then tell me, where you did you get this notion that your friend might be in trouble? Who, exactly, is this friend?" said Sherlock. "John I am aware that you've been seeing and perhaps hearing things that aren't there, including a vision of Sebastian Moran."

Fuck and bloody hell. The two-ton elephant in the room just got up and sat on John H. Watson. Bloody buggering fuck.

John realized that it was remarkably hard to think with a metaphorical elephant sitting in your lap.

Sherlock wasn't finished, "John can you swear that you are not seeing or hearing things that are not there?"

The army doctor chewed his lip; his forehead resembled a roadmap of wrinkles as he tried to think his way out of this bloody morass.

"John Watson, we need to go. We need to go home and leave these missions behind. You are injured and ill and require medical care," said Sherlock, stroking John's hair in imitation of how John always soothed him.

FUCK! The defective may have said medical care but John Watson heard mental ward. In fact, John could almost hear the doors slamming shut, locking him inside the psychiatric unit.

Sherlock wants to send me away, screamed John inside his hastily rebuilt mental fortress. Fuck that. Fuck the fucking ghosts. Fuck the bloody fucking hospitals! Fuck. Fuck. Bloody buggering FUCK!

'Plan B! Sound retreat! Run for the hills,' yelled the idiotic mini-soldier in his mental fortress.

And Moran was right in front of John. He suspected that John wouldn't trust Sherlock now. Sherlock tightened his grip on John. Oh God, of course Sherlock knew. He knew, that John knew about the hospital. Sherlock was going to force John into some mental ward.

And Moran was pointing to the rest of the files. And then pointing to Sherlock. He smiled at John, oh so friendly, considering he was a fucking, evil, phantom. John didn't trust Moran even more than he didn't trust Sherlock. I am so fucked, thought John, not for the first time that night.

Still, John slipped out of the detective's grasp and grabbed the rejected files. He shoved them at Sherlock. "Check these out first, Sherlock. Then we'll go up top and um, then we'll decide what to do, okay. I'll do whatever you think is best," said the blond, trying to placate the genius.

Sherlock looked askance at his blogger, immediately suspicious of John's rapid acquiescence. John smiled blandly, further fueling the detective's disquiet.

Irritated, Sherlock glanced at the folders, quickly discarding the first two. Then he froze. The next file was labeled **Jim**.

Oh…

He opened it; the very first letter confirmed Sherlock's suspicions about the smuggling ring in Cardiff, the one that Moriarty had so obviously organized. But there was never any proof, until now.

The next page was useless. The next two might have been helpful years ago. He tossed them aside.

The next several were handwritten letters to Moran. They were open and revealing. They might help solve the puzzle who James Moriarty really was…'OH! This is Christmas,' thought Sherlock.

Sherlock was enthralled, as he greedily read by the light of his pocket torch.

The Colonel grinned his evil, tosser grin and nudged John, numbing John's arm with the cold.

"_C'mon Johnny-boy," _said Cam. "_Your mates up top have had enough and they're comin' down. Yeah, that detective fellow is already shimmying down the rope. And that fuck-head, Mitchell, is all set to personally escort you to hospital. I don' think he likes you, Johnny. I sure as fuck don't like him. Som'thin's up with that one," _growled Cam. Like a brother, Cam picked on John relentlessly but was ready to fight with anyone else who so much as sneezed at John. Mitchell was definitely on Cam's bad side now.

John hesitated. He did not trust Moran. He sort of trusted Micky and Stew and even that idiot, Cam. He wanted to trust Sherlock, but Sherlock had just said that John needed to go to hospital.

Fuck.

The trip to the psych ward was a NO GO.

John edged his way back to the rope leading up to the trap door. The soldier hefted his duffel. It was too heavy. He dropped it and offloaded some of the water, a rifle and ammo (not The Rifle, of course) and then some more water. Hell, he only needed to carry tiny bit of water, he had the filter and iodine tabs now.

Lestrade was finishing his descent.

"Hey Greg!" said John, as if they had parted ways only yesterday. "I found the ladder," added John, innocently.

He pulled a very long rope ladder out from under the rubbish. A ladder that Moran had just helpfully pointed out. That damned, imaginary, glowing, sneaky, son-of-a-bitch wanker from bloody hell.

"How're you feeling, John," asked the detective inspector carefully. Once more, John heard the doors of the psych ward slamming.

John tied the ladder to the rope which swayed as O'Brien shimmied down next.

"Good, great. I'm great. Just, um cold. Sherlock wants me to go up top to wait and warm up, right Sherlock?" said John.

Sherlock grunted his assent; then he muttered some deductions while he waved his papers around.

"Hey, you guys," John called up. "As soon as O'Brien gets down here and before you send Irene, pull up this ladder. There are hooks right up there; I forget which side they're on."

Lestrade was rubbing his arms vigorously, "Yeah it is cold all of a sudden," John casually looked away from Micky, who backed away from the detective inspector with an apologetic look on his handsome, nearly transparent face.

"Say, how'd you know that Irene was next in line?" asked the very suspicious and overly snoopy detective inspector.

John was saved from answering when he was enveloped in O'Brien's huge bear hug. Lestrade's frown turned into an insufferable smirk, as John disappeared in the taller womans embrace. The army doctor blindly tugged on the rope to signal Mitchell and Irene to pull up the ladder.

As long as Sherlock was otherwise engaged, John allowed himself to share a chaste, well almost, chaste kiss with his business partner.

"_And that's how the legend of Three Continents John Watson was born,"_ said Micky smugly. After all, it was the sergeant who came up with the nickname for John 'Three Continents' Watson in the first place.

"Johnny are you alright?" asked Alisa breathless from her descent and John's exuberant greeting. "I mean, you sounded a bit…goofy there for a while, Johnny."

"And I've asked you not to call me Johnny," he said, his grin fading as he looked at his boyfriend who was engrossed with those damned files. He dragged his gaze back to the tall woman in his arms and plastered a smile on his face. "Anyway, Alisa, I'm fine. I guess I just jarred my brains when I fell, and everything was a little foggy for a few minutes. But I'm fine now. I just need to go up top. Orders of his Highness over there." John nodded his head at the consulting detective, who was on about something.

"No, No, No!" expostulated the tall brunet, angrily shaking the file. "That can't be right. He can't possibly have known that before I did…" his baritone gradually lowered in volume,but he continued to mutter and gesture to himself.

"_And they think _you're_ crazy?" _asked Cam in disbelief.

John managed to ignore the imaginary phantom, who gaped at Sherlock's antics.

"So, um, I'm supposed to go up top," repeated John, "and I sorta need to relieve myself anyway. And you need to get your loan payback outta that briefcase over there, and make sure you take whatever you want of the jewelry. You better hurry before Mitchell and that Woman come down and scarf it all up."

"Oh trust me, I will, Johnny," said Alisa finally releasing him from her hug. "But Irene's not all that bad, Johnny."

They all looked over when the ladder dropped with a whoosh. Mitchell immediately began to climb down pushing ahead of Irene Adler.

"I'll explain about her later, Johnny," said O'Brien, who turned and trotted over to collect on John's debt before that Mitchell could interfere.

"I'm not so sure that you can just give away that money, John," said the policeman with pursed lips.

"You go stop her then," said John. He figured O'Brien was more than a match for Greg Lestrade. The army captain turned to face Mitchell, who nodded stiffly at John.

"Hey, Mitchell," said John trying to sound friendly and sane. Mitchell seemed unconvinced.

"That mess of paperwork was Sherlock's way of sorting," the blond pointed at the files littering the floor in the ersatz living area. If you guys are looking for evidence, it's probably over there," said John disingenuously.

"Yeah, I'll check it out. Just don't go anywhere with that bag," said Mitchell eyeing the duffel.

"Course not. Are you afraid I'm going to smuggle these MRE's outta the country?" said John, with his arms crossed over his chest.

Mitchell caught sight of Alisa O'Brien pocketing stacks of money. He turned away from John.

"Hey, you! O'Brien! You can't just take that money," yelled Mitchell, who stormed over, followed by Lestrade.

The Woman was making her way down faster now. John remembered how she escaped through a second story window wearing nothing but Sherlock's coat, like Cat Woman, thought John.

Her eyes were already locked on the money and jewelry and the three people arguing in front of the oblivious detective.

In spite of his dislike for Irene Adler, John felt he had to hold the ladder steady as she climbed down with her cat-like agility.

"Where's Ahsan and Morstan?" asked John.

"Oh, Mary went looking for Ahsan a while ago, I'd guess that she found him," said Irene Adler, with that oily, know-it-all voice that John really despised. "They'll turn up in a little while, pretending that nothing is going on between them."

She hopped off the ladder and, having no interest in John Watson, she hurried to join the now heated discussion.

_"Let's go man,_" said Micky. The Colonel looked intently at John, willing him to head up the ladder. John looked at O'Brien, who seemed to have found an ally in Ms. Adler. John's money was on the two women.

John put one foot on the ladder, and then suddenly John pivoted and started walking back to Sherlock.

Stuart Collins held out a hand, painfully freezing the center of John's chest. The ghost whipped his hand away, frowning at John's grimace of pain.

"_Sorry, John. I didn't realize…_" said the one time army captain. "_But, look, now's your chance. They're all busy. And you can't trust that damned Sherlock Holmes. Mitchell's been telling everyone that he cleared his fucking hospital scheme with Holmes first. You've got to go now."_

John hefted his duffel and began the climb up the ladder. His heart hurt from the realization that Sherlock was so willing to just send John away to a mental ward. His left hand and arm hurt too, of course, but they were as nothing compared to his bleeding heart.

**A/N ***I hope that I did not offend anyone who is red-headed or cares about anyone who is red-headed. I simply couldn't resist the Mycroft joke. As usual, I blame John. I do not personally hold any grudges against redheads, gingers or people with auburn hair. One of my best friends has red hair although it is thinning a bit now. Really.

BTW, John likes red-heads too. He sort of doesn't like a certain redheaded master the universe who pretends to be a minor functionary of the British Government. But otherwise he likes gingers. John very much likes a certain consulting detective who has used red hair for his disguise.

Anyway.

**Thank you** to everyone for reading this fic. The updates are taking longer than I'd like but I truly appreciate your patience. Thank you, thank you for continuing with this fic,

A special **THANK YOU** to everyone who has been reviewing this fic. including EJ12212012, InuChimera, foxeeflame, SamuelE8688, I'm Nova, power0girl, Nevyn, Wicked Winter and Quiet Time. Thank you all for your wonderful and helpful reviews.

**Disclaimer** I own no rights to Sherlock. But I wish that I did. But I don't.


	10. Chapter 10

**Warning-rated M**

I. One scene with domestic violence, which is abhorrent in real life. It is never okay, and no one should ever have to tolerate it. Never.

II. Smut. Which is fine in real life, between consenting adults, of course.

III. Gratuitous cursing and ridiculous overuse of the F-bomb.

IV. Short but irrational rant in the A/N following this chapter.

Note-If the first or second warnings apply to you, please contact me, and I will let you know where they are and how to avoid them. Or give you a very brief synopsis of the chapter.

If the last two bother you, I'm not sure how you got this far into this fic, but, nevertheless, I apologize if it bothers you. I never set out to bother anyone.

**CHAPTER 10**

"John!" bellowed Sherlock. "John! John, come down here; I want you to see this." The consulting detective crumpled a sheaf of papers in his large hand, and then he shook them peevishly. He began pacing in the dark bunker, somehow managing to avoid the obstacles hidden in the shadows.

The information on Moriarty, while interesting, was no longer a priority. And there were no solid clues as to the whereabouts of Moran's hidden cache of weapons, although he'd like to review a few pages with John who might see something that he had missed. That, of course, was very unlikely, but then again, John might highlight something that would inspire the great detective. John was unparalleled as a conductor of light.

"John, will you come down here at once," thundered the consulting detective. Then there was one interesting document that John just had to see for himself.

What on earth was John doing? Surely it didn't take fifteen minutes for a small soldier to relieve his bladder, which had clearly been John's intention. The silly man had been dancing about nervously before he climbed the ladder with his heavy duffel bag.

For that matter, why take the duffel up at all? If the overly modest man was in such a hurry to find some privacy to relieve himself, wasn't the duffel an awkward, heavy and un-neccessary burden?

That might just be an important question, and yet it was impossible to think with that buzzing sound. Of course John would leave, just when something annoying started.

Sherlock needed to think, and those idiots, arguing over their filthy lucre, were a distraction. He sighed loudly and rolled his eyes in the dark, because now Sherlock was distracted by wondering which stupid distraction was worse, the fools fighting over the money or that irritating static.

"Lestrade, can't you control your team, and make them shut up!" barked Sherlock. "John!" he bellowed again.

"Sherlock, they are not my team to control." Lestrade snapped back. "Why don't you join us; maybe they'll listen to you. And you can stop yelling for John. He went up top over an hour ago. If he's not right next to the door, then I bet he doesn't even hear you."

Oh, not fifteen minutes. It's been over an hour ago, thought Sherlock uneasily. That seemed an excessive amount of time to relieving oneself, even for modest John Watson.

"Do you honestly think I don't know that, Lestrade?" sneered the lanky detective, covering up his lapse. The tall, pale man carded through his dark hair, making it look even more wild. "John Watson, come down here! There is something we need to discuss," he yelled again.

"Oi, Sherlock," said Lestrade pinching his nose. "Be reasonable. John looked done in. Maybe he's sleeping. Then again, maybe he and Ahsan are trading war stories about dealing with you. Whatever he's doing, yelling for him isn't getting you anywhere and it's making my headache worse."

"Oh for God's sake," interrupted Sherlock, "what is that noise; is someone playing back a video?" He glared at Lestrade as if he were purposely buzzing like a giant angry bee.

"Sherlock, I don't hear anything except you yelling and that lot arguing," said the exhausted detective inspector, rubbing his chilled arms again. "Look, you understand the law; tell them that the money needs to go to the local law enforcement for safekeeping or possibly to Interpol. In the end, all of this probably belongs to the Indian Government…

"This land and this bunker legally belonged to Moran," huffed Sherlock, as it the detective inspector should have known this already. "Therefore, the bunker and all its contents belong to his heir."

"How the hell do you come up with that?" demanded Mitchell who turned to glare at the two detectives.

"From a copy of his will that was in the safe," said Sherlock, waving one of the crumpled documents. "According to an attachment, there are additional copies of this will in a safe deposit boxes in Ireland, Switzerland and with an attorney in Jalandhar. It is quite legal and will certainly stand up in court. It's curious that the will hasn't surfaced before now."

"I want to see that," demanded Mitchell, who had been helping himself to some of the cash when the ladies refused to allow him to take it all for safe-keeping.

"No, I don't think so. I don't wish to show you right now; I need to show it to John Watson first," stated the detective waspishly. He could now comprehend one of John's favorite idioms, itching for a fight. Thanks to the erratic behavior of his blogger, the arguing idiots that were supposed to be his handlers, the freezing cold in this dark, musty bunker and that damnable buzzing, Sherlock Holmes was itching for a fight right now.

Detective inspector Lestrade and agent Mitchell stood staring at him. Evidently one or both of them had spoken to him, but he had missed it. Odd. Perhaps he didn't hear them over that constant buzzing. He raised an imperious eyebrow, as if it was their fault and not his.

"Never mind," said Lestrade, throwing his hands up in the air and turning to the others. "Look, you guys, you all need to put the money and jewelry back. Really just put it back," ordered Lestrade. "This all belongs to Moran's mysterious heir." Then the man ran his fingers through his own graying hair and muttered, "Whoever the hell that is."

"It doesn't belong to the heir, if the local authorities can prove that the money was obtained criminally …" chirped in Mitchell, who had not returned his wads of money, which were stuffed into his pockets.

"There will be no such proof," stated Sherlock with conviction, after all, he and John now possessed all of the relevant paperwork. Most of it in that duffel in fact...

Something wasn't right. He needed to look for John, but where was the static coming from. Didn't the others hear it too? He looked around for a source, turning over several piles of rubbish in the process and earning glares from the others.

He tugged at his ear, then stuck a finger in his ear canal and jiggled it. The droning noise was definitely getting worse; it was almost as if there were words buried in the buzzing. If only he could make out the words…

"Johnny promised to repay me with this money, and I'm keeping it," said O'Brien loudly, cutting through the static. It certainly caught Sherlock's attention; that greedy minx. thought the consulting detective who tilted his head to glare at his rival.

"And the reason for your interest in John Watson now becomes crystal clear," sneered Sherlock. "You want him for the money, obviously."

"You bastard," returned O'Brien. "Johnny is my friend…"

"If you were his friend, you'd know that he hates to be called Johnny," interrupted the tall, arrogant consulting detective. "I refuse to bandy insults with you; i's terribly dull. Take whatever money you want; then go back to Bangkok. John will miss neither you nor that money." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at Alisa O'Brien.

"Sherlock, it's not your money to give away," began Lestrade.

"No, it's John's money, and he will no doubt insist on repaying his debt to O'Brien. John will of course feel honor bound to repay even this dubious debt," explained Sherlock. He continued snidely, "Oh, did I forget to mention. In his will, Moran left everything to John Hamish Watson, MD."

After dropping that bomb, Sherlock stood aloof, and watched as the nattering, mindless idiots scurried about, pointlessly squawking and squealing like so many monkeys. However, the loud, persistent buzzing made it difficult to hear their words, which was probably just as well. What Sherlock could hear was, of course, meaningless, "What?" "John is rich?" "That tricky son of a bitch." "Are you sure, I still think we should keep it." "What? What?" "Let's just ask John." "Just how close was he to Moran?" "God, maybe Watson was in on it the whole time." Idiots, pathetic brainless idiots, thought Sherlock with contempt.

Actually, Sherlock could care less what these people thought. His only concern was to find John Watson. Had it really been over an hour since John left, with his duffel?

"…_you fucking wanker! John's gone…"_

For just a moment the buzzing had stopped, and Sherlock had clearly heard a voice. Sherlock looked around again for the source. He rubbed his chilled arms, feeling goose bumps after another draft of frigid air ghosted over him.

The voice, whoever it was, was very rude and uncouth. In fact, it reminded him of Donovan, but not exactly. It was a man's voice and his accent was…was more like PC Foster's or perhaps more like young Burton's, from the homeless network. There was definitely a hint of…

"_You're wasting time, you stupid fucking wanker," _said the voice. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied the arguing, agitated team. The voice hadn't come from them, and they clearly didn't hear it. Oh dear God, O'Brien was actually crying on The Woman's shoulder. How maudlin.

The buzzing was back, like the static on the telly in the middle of the night, when John had forgot to turn it off. John could be such an idiot, falling asleep in his chair to the sound of the damn telly. He always ended up with a sore shoulder afterwards.

Sherlock hugged his long arms to his body. It was damnably cold in this hellish bunker, and Sherlock usually didn't notice something so unimportant as cold.

"_Bloody, fuckin' hell, listen to me you bloody tosser. John Watson has done a flit. He's getting away…"_ buzzing _"…go after him, you fuckin' wanker…_" more static. Sherlock tilted his head and listened but only heard more buzzing and then some indecipherable words before the word '_wanker_ ' repeated quite clearly.

Oh. It must be a radio. Somewhere, there was a hidden speaker…And John was gone.

John had left him. Well, that explains the hour-long absence. John had left him. That explains the duffel.

No doubt John was off on his mission to nowhere with no one. Unless…Oh. The radio really did explain everything. John must have been communicating with an accomplice on the radio. That's how John knew what was going on up top. That's how he knew that this mysterious _friend_ was in some kind of danger. If the danger was even real and not just an excuse for John to abandon Sherlock.

Obviously, John was working with some new ally and didn't feel the need to tell Sherlock.

John had left him.

Sherlock needed a cigarette. Pity that Moran hadn't left any drugs. Sherlock could use a hit right now. No matter, he'd be able to find some in Jalandhar.

John had left him. Sherlock Holmes was betrayed yet again. All hearts are broken.

"_I said John's gone."_

It was mildly curious; no one else seemed to hear either the buzzing or the voice. And of course John was gone; he'd always known that John would leave, everyone always left…

"I_ don't trust Moran. I don'know what the Colonel's up to, but I'm afraid Cap'n John's in danger…Cripes! What the fuck is the matter with you? I thought you were supposed to care 'bout John, you stupid, selfish wanker!"_ there was more damned buzzing, _"…no idea what the Colonel can actually do, but he's always been stronger than the rest of us. I'm afraid of 'im. I'm afraid for John, he's_ _all alone, Holmes. He's gonna get 'imself killed dead, that's what…"_ And the droning started again.

Serves John right for leaving, was Sherlock's first thought. Then Sherlock's world began imploding. John had left him. John was in danger. What if John died? Sherlock's clever mind immediately supplied several visuals of John's corpse. John killed by gunshot, killed by strangulation, killed by poisoning, killed by torture...

Sherlock couldn't bear it. John must not die. What would be the damned point of anything, if John died?

Sherlock turned, and he began climbing the ladder. The others were too absorbed in fighting over a gaudy, glittery bit of jewelry to register his departure.

He would save his blogger from his wretched fate, and then… Sherlock would strangle him.

* * *

Yet another thorn-bush tore at Sherlock's trousers and hands. At least he was finally following a very clear trail of crushed grass and brush.

He also did not hear the buzzing any longer. Well, of course he didn't hear it, the radio had been left far behind in the bunker.

He also decided that he had not actually heard that buzzing outside of the bunker as chased after his traitorous blogger. It was not as though he, the World's Only Consulting Detective, had been following a random buzzing sound. That would be ridiculous.

He, the World's Only Consulting Detective, had followed myriads of tiny clues in the environment and used his subconscious awareness of those clues to guide him. If he had time he could enter his mind palace and isolate and identify those clues. However, he did not have the luxury of time. John was in danger.

That horrid voice echoed in his mind palace, "_He's gonna get 'imself killed, that's what..."._ John cannot die.

Sweat poured down his face and neck. His hair stuck to his forehead, and his shirt stuck to his back. He panted, just a bit winded, as he alternately strode and then ran in the hot, dry night air.

He was certain that one Captain John H. Watson, RAMC, had made this trail. The tall man slowed to catch his breath. He held his aching side. He decided that he did not have a common stitch in his side, and his wound did not ache from his exertions. He most definitely did not have a broken heart. He was above such things.

He also did not hear another disembodied voice. Ridiculous. Or did he? Yes he did.

"Cut it the fuck out… You lied to me, you fucking son of a bitch! You tricked me…"

He did hear a voice; it was John, off on another tirade. No doubt he was arguing with his accomplice_._ Actually, John sounded almost…frightened.

No. No. Unacceptable.

Sherlock leapt forward, and in the dim light of the rising moon, he soon spotted his damned, disloyal, former lover standing in the grasses and weeds.

There did not appear to be any accomplice present. Indeed, John was quite alone.

Yet John was frantically yanking at his arm, which was inexplicably stuck in mid-air. Some kind of hysterical compulsion? Sherlock huffed; only John would fight an imaginary foe and lose.

Sherlock was more than ready to give John Watson someone real to fight with. Oh yes, Sherlock was really itching for a fight now.

John cried out again in a strange, strangled voice. "No. It hurts…Just let go…" Sherlock charged.

* * *

After hiking for close on to an hour, John paused to reconsider his rash move, his disastrous move. Oh God, everything was all fucked up. FUBAR didn't even touch it.

He couldn't just leave Sherlock behind. What the fuck was I thinking, wondered the distraught soldier? It was like he was drugged or something. Yeah, it was like Baskerville, but not really. It wasn't terrifying and John's hallucinations started before he even got close to the bunker. It was all just too fucking confusing, that's what.

Bloody hell, he didn't have any proof that Sherlock was involved in the stupid mental ward plot. If there even was a mental ward plot. The more he thought about it, the dumber the whole thing sounded.

John didn't even have any proof against Mitchell. It was just a matter of not trusting that bloody CIA agent in general. It made sense not to trust any CIA agent considereing that a CIA agent had threatened to shoot him in Irene's home and a CIA agent had hurt Mrs. Hudson. Then there were the men-in-black and pastels who had chased John across the State of New Jersey, and kidnapped him and nearly drowned him in the famous Delaware River and…

Bloody, buggering hell! None of that was important now! Fuck the CIA!

Sherlock was important. John had to go back. He'd talk it all over with Sherlock, rationally, like an adult. Because, dammit, John Watson, at least, was an adult. He and Sherlock could surely come up with a plan, couldn't they?

John pivoted and began to storm back, following his own trail. Stew and Cam both tried to stop him with their freezing cold hands. They demanded that he 'turn back' and asked 'what about Chas'. They told John to 'stick to the fuckin' plan'.

John told them where to stick it.

Then the bloody, buggering bastard, Moran blocked his way. John tried to pass right through him, like before, and failed. It was like trying to pass through half-frozen slush. John shivered violently and retreated with difficulty. Wait…How can a hallucinatory ghost physically block anyone?

Then the bloody, buggering bastard grabbed John's arm, an icy chill immediately spread up John's arm like some gelid poison. God that fucking hurt, and then his arm went numb. The burning cold began to spread to his chest. John was momentarily nonplussed by the attack and by the fact that the imaginary specter was so…so…corporeal? Weird. The Colonel looked sorta solid.

It was becoming hard to breath. "Cut it the fuck out… You lied to me, you fucking son of a bitch! You tricked me…"John gasped becoming weaker with each passing second.

Weird, really fucking weird. John could see his breath in the moonlight. No, stop getting distracted, commanded his inner soldier. John kept fighting. He tried to pull away, even as the pain in his chest grew. As if the air in his lungs was freezing, suffocating him...

"_Colonel, let him go!" yelled Cam. "Come on, Seb, John's one of us; you can't do this," yelled Stew. "Stop it, Sir. Just fuckin' stop!"_ shrieked Cam helplessly.

"No. It hurts… Just let go!" John gasped breathlessly. He kept struggling, even as he began to starve for oxygen, because soldiers never give up, especially if they were about to be dragged into hell by one of the devil's own.

John made a choking sound and scrabbled at the very solid-seeming Colonel.

Micky appeared and tackled the Colonel who didn't budge, but it somehow broke off Moran's contact with John.

John staggered backwards and looking up, saw Sherlock Holmes hurtling towards John. John was not ready for the fist that slammed into his jaw. The small blond soldier spun around and dropped like a ton of rocks.

John blinked owlishly in the pale moonlight. Sherlock Holmes stood with clenched fists, panting in apparent fury. Fuck.

The snarling, glowing Colonel appeared translucent again, and then he slowly began to disappear. Well, fuck.

He tilted his head and tested his jaw. Micky and Cam ineffectually grabbed at the advancing detective who dropped down to his knees, straddling the fallen soldier. He grabbed John's shoulders and lifted him up, only to bang him to the ground. Fuck.

"Liar," the taller man growled. "You lying bastard. You lying, cheating, stupid bastard! You never loved me; you never cared about me. You left me." He lifted John again, shook him hard and then banged John onto the ground again.

John only had one functional arm and his head was dazed and everything fucking hurt. But a soldier never gives up. Well, fuck. Fuck this.

"Fuck this!" grunted John, who brought his knees up and shoved the detective forward, banging their heads together. John saw the clichéd stars. Still, he twisted out of Sherlock's grasp by rolling down on his bad arm. It wasn't numb anymore. Blinding pain shot down his arm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

John knelt on one knee, trying to catch his breath in spite of the shocking agony in his twitching arm. Fu…

The human octopus, with ten-foot long arms, tackled the still unsteady soldier. The enraged detective drove his knee into John's back and pinned his blogger to the ground.

"You fucking, lying cheat," continued the crazed detective.

John found himself face first in the dirt with his arm twisted behind his back. Well the arm definitely wasn't numb anymore. Now it throbbed and burned. For just one second, John wished that he would pass out.

He and Sherlock both panted harshly in the hot, night air.

"You lied, and… You. Left. Me. You left me. Again!" yelled Sherlock his voice thundering, as if that ton of rocks had become an avalanche, raining down on John Watson.

"Before I leave you forever, I want to know why." The younger man pulled back sharply on the fallen man's arm raising the soldier off of the ground.

Now Sherlock was torturing him. And hallucinatory ghosts tried to kill him. What the fuck? These were supposed to be John's friends? I give up, thought John, in his misery. Sorry. I'm so sorry Mr. al-Masri, but I give up. Too bad dad, I quit. He snorted at the rhyming, as he teetered on the verge of hysteria.

Since John wasn't fighting any more, Sherlock relented just a little. "John," said Sherlock coldly. "I still require an explanation."

"I'm sorry," John grunted in pain. "I'm sorry but I had to, or well, I _thought_ I had to leave, 'cause everyone thought I was crazy and wanted to lock me up. I thought you even wanted to…"

"Liar!" spat Sherlock. "I never wanted to…"

"Well Mitchell wanted to," yelled John. "He wanted to send me away. And, and he said. that is, Mitchell said, you agreed. He said he texted you and you texted back agreeing with Mitchell. You agreed by texting," John repeated.

"That's ridiculous, Doctor Watson," sneered Sherlock. "I have never texted Mitchell. And there is no way to text anyone inside the bunker. There's no signal at all."

Well fuck. John twisted his head to look up at some horrified hallucinatory ghosts.

"You lied to me, Cam!" growled John. "You and Stew lied to me. You said that Mitchell…"

"_Whoa Johnny, that's exactly what Mitchell said. I only told you what Mitchell told the others. How'm I s'posed to know if he's the one lying or if it's your so-called boyfriend who's lying?" _asked Cam._ "Hey now Johnny, I'm not so sure that this guy is your friend anyway. You want that I should hit this bastard for beating you up? Maybe I could…"_

"Fuck it! No! Leave him alone. Leave me alone," John almost sobbed out. He took a deep rasping breath. His voice sank slowly into a harsh whisper. "You're all fucking with me, and I've had enough. I don't want to see you. I don't want to talk to you. And take that fucking, bastard colonel with you. I hate you! I hate all of you! I, I…"

"_John, I'm so sorry…"_ began Stew reaching for John.

"Just get the _fuck_ away from me," said John, dropping his forehead in the dirt defeated. Soldiers did give up after all. John gave up. He was done…

"Who, the _FUCK, _are you talking to, John Watson," demanded Sherlock trembling. Had John just ordered Sherlock to get away? There was no one else here. There was no radio. Unless, John was wired? Sherlock started to pat down his blogger. "I said, who are you talking to?" he demanded again, twisting his now limp blogger's arm.

"Hallucinatory ghosts," John squeaked into the dirt. He hated that high-pitched squeak. He hated being pinned down. He hoped, irrationally, that the dirt would just swallow John Watson up, leaving not a trace of his miserable existence.

Sherlock gave up on his search, there was no wire, but then the detective hadn't really expected one. Sherlock pondered John's response. What if John couldn't help it? What if he really was hallucinating…

"Hallucinations, John?" asked Sherlock. "Do you really think you see…ghosts, John? Even now?"

"Yeah," sighed John, pinned down with a knee in his back and his arm bent to the breaking point. Whatever.

"Yeah I do. I'm sorry, but I do. I see ghosts. There's four of them, but they're all hiding right now, except Micky. And actually he was just leaving," suggested John with an edge in his voice. Miraculously, Micky just gave a stiff nod of his faintly glowing head and marched off into the dimly lit brush.

Watching his last friend leave was a relief and cause for alarm. At least the imaginary ghosts wouldn't witness John's humiliation and torture at the hands of his so-called lover. But that did leave John alone with that so-called lover. He shuddered in pain, fear and stage one hypothermia.

Sherlock was processing data, somewhere along the line, he, the World's Only Consulting Detective, had made a mistake. John really was compromised, seriously ill, and Sherlock had just beaten John to the ground.

"Do you think the ghosts are real?" asked the detective cautiously, while he tilted his head to examine his fallen soldier.

"No. No, of course not, they…" John stuttered. "I, well actually… I, I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe? I don't know actually know. I don't know what's real and what's not real anymore, okay? Just…" John swallowed hard. He was NOT going to cry, not with his face in the dirt. It would make mud, wouldn't it? "I, I just don't know."

"Christ, John," the detective breathed out. Sherlock was back to square one with his injured, damaged and delusional blogger. "But they are _not_ real," said Sherlock firmly. Except for his harsh breath, John was silent.

The detective pulled in his lower lip, biting it. Then he flipped his blogger over, quickly sitting on him again to keep him firmly in place. Regardless of John's mental state, the man kept slipping out of Sherlock's grasp. That would end right now.

"Maybe they're not real, maybe they are," said John after he could look up at his dangerous so-called lover. "Doesn't matter to me. They were right about Mitchell wanting to send me off somewhere, weren't they?" asked John. Sherlock's silence, of course, meant yes. "Well, I won't be locked up. I can't afford to be locked up. They said that Chas was in danger, and that means I have to go check on Chas…"

"_Chas_. You left me for Chas," snarled Sherlock, his anger rekindled. "After I followed you across two continents and an ocean. You. Left. Me!" said the dangerous man, his grip on John's arms tightened painfully.

"I tried to tell you," explained John. "But then they said, Cam and Stuart said, that Mitchell already had a plan in place to take me to hospital, and then you said I needed a doctor..."

"You do need a doctor, John Watson, obviously," snapped the detective. "But that doesn't mean I would _force_ you to see a doctor, and it certainly doesn't mean that I would lock you up or let anyone else lock you up, you idiot. _Mitchell_ had no right to make any arrangements concerning you. I will certainly not allow him to take you away."

"And John," continued Sherlock, "has it entered into your feeble little mind, that the danger to your _friend _is delusional. You are delusional and listening to hallucinations…"

"Yeah, I thought of that. But, but…

"They are hallucinations; they are not real," growled Sherlock, still sounding dangerous with his dark, heavy, full-of ashes-and-smoke voice. "There are no such things as ghosts."

"Yeah, I know," agreed John readily. "But I still see them, and I hear them. And what they say makes sense. And they know things, Sherlock. They know things I don't know," continued John. "So I guess they are kinda real. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm really sorry. And I still have to go. I have to get to Chas, even though Stew thinks that the Colonel thinks that we're already too late...Well, you don't think they're so real, it doesn't matter what they think. So, um, never mind. I, well, I guess you're just going to have to lock me up." John closed his eyes because he was so damned sure that a look of disgust was about to appear on Sherlock's face, and the doctor really didn't want to see it.

He felt a puff of warm, moist air on his face. His eyes opened to see Sherlock hovering over him; the detective's eyes glinted like cold-hearted jewels in the moonlight. Sherlock still looked angry with his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line, but at least he didn't look disgusted.

"You little idiot!" hissed the detective. "Aren't you listening? Don't you understand that I will never allow anyone to take you away from me? Don't you realize that, somewhere inside that minuscule little brain of yours?" snapped the detective.

"Oh! Ahh..I'm not sure…" stuttered John. licking his lip.

"Well I don't see how I can be any clearer, John."

"No. Of course," John furrowed his brow trying to accept…no to trust Sherlock, even with this. "Look I…I'm sorry, Sherlock, I guess I...shouldn't have jumped to conclusions, but seriously that little brain bit…"

"Precisely, John," said Sherlock emphatically. "I have warned you endlessly about your bad habit of deducing without all the facts. And I said your brain is minuscule, not little. And of course we are not talking about actual brain volume but rather brain function, and obviously my brain function is far superior to almost anyone else's including, I am afraid, yours. Hence the minuscule comment, which in fact is correct."

"Sherlock?" asked John.

"Shut up, John," said Sherlock quietly, "I'm thinking."

The night was quiet; indeed dawn was not that far off. Only a few insects still chirped and whirred. The fitful dry, dusty breeze barely stirred the brush but did little to relieve the heat.

"Sherlock, is it getting hotter? I'm getting kinda hot now," whispered John.

"John, I am not inclined to discuss the weather. No I have more important things to discuss. John Hamish Watson, I am very much afraid that your recent trauma, on top of your PTSD, has led to a psychotic break. Don't interrupt, John," ordered the consulting detective. "And there is no need to panic. As you are not in your right mind, John, it's no wonder you are confused. I shall have to do the thinking for both of us, but I usually do so anyway; so that will not be a problem." John snorted, but a long, tapered finger covered his lips. "No, John don't thank me; I'm only doing what is necessary."

"Whaa?" asked John, from around Sherlock's fingers.

"And you can rest your weary little mind, John. I will ensure that you are not sent to hospital. I promise that I will never let anyone take you from me. When you are ready, we will consult the appropriate professionals. In the meantime, I believe that I can handle your mental indisposition. Futhermore, given your blatant propensity to get into trouble, it seems that I will have to ensure that you are with me at all times, for the foreseeable future," said Sherlock. "I can only imagine the disasters that would befall you, should you proceed any further on your own." The tall man shook his head at the imagined disasters befalling his blogger.

"But…"

"John, I can not consign a rodent's bloody arse to your illusory phantasms. Enough of that. Now. I must insist that you promise not to leave me again," said Sherlock, his voice deep and dangerous and threatening. Despite the very, hot Punjab night, which was beginning to make John sweat, Sherlock's deep, dangerous voice gave his blogger goose bumps.

"Yeah. Okay. I won't leave, unless you want me to…" Sherlock looked murderous. "Um, I won't leave, at all, ever, okay?" Sherlock's brows began to unknit. That was evidently the correct answer.

John had to remind himself that Sherlock was the man who brought down Moriarty and his entire criminal network. John really should be more careful when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. This man was really very scary sometimes, which for John meant bewitching and incredibly sexy. Still, consigning a rat's arse? That really just rankled.

"And um, Sherlock, I thought you might like to know that the saying is 'to give a rat's arse'. Or to 'give a bloody rat's arse'. Or… well, maybe not. Never mind," John licked his lips. "Um, I... look can I maybe get up now?" John's wrists were effectively cuffed in those large, _seemingly_ delicate hands. "Look here, Sherlock Holmes. I still have to make sure Chas is okay, even if you don't believe in ghosts or, well, even if I've gone round the twist."

"Very well, John Watson. I do not give a bloody rat's arse, if you insist on that idiom, about your ghosts or your missions. However, if you are determined to go see this Chas, so be it. We will go together. But you will remember that you belong to me, now. Do you think you can remember that?"

"Yeah, sure. I belong…now wait a minute, Sherlock. People don't actually own each other…"

"Dammit, John! Are you being deliberately obtuse tonight?" barked Sherlock. "Don't bother answering that. You are worse than confused; you are even more idiotic than usual. I will be generous and ascribe it to your current mental indisposition. Just say it! Say, you belong to me!" demanded the needy brunet.

"Noooo," said John, pursing his lips. He had decided that his earlier surrender was premature. In fact, giving up was now completely off the table, much to the rejoicing of John's inner soldier, who cheered from wtihin the battle damaged mind fortress.

"What did you say, John," said the tall dark figure looming over him, trembling at his blogge's refusal.

"I said...I said no. Not until you, um, agree that we don't hit each other. That's just not on, Sherlock," said John speaking quickly. "And if you ever do that to me again, I'll punch y...no, no, I'll _leave_. I'll leave you."

Sherlock turned his head away, then looked back through slanted eyes. "John, I'm sorry..."

"I didn't ask for an apology, Sherlock," said John, "I just want us to understand one another. We don't hurt each other, okay?"

"I agree," mumbled the detective, looking at his blogger from the corner of his eye.

John scowled, his forehead crumbling into deep crevices.

"No, no John, I agreed with you completely," said Sherlock. "I will never raise my hand to you in anger again, and I was wrong to hurt someone who belongs to me. You do belong to me?" he insisted

He leaned down with wide eyes; surely John could not resist Sherlock's big-eyed look now.

Sherlock had always been too possessive, thought John. He had even warned John about it again in New York City. And John liked it really, which was probably another sign of his mental indisposition. And for some reason, Sherlock obviously felt insecure, even though he was the victorious and incredibly handsome genius and his boyfriend was an old, wounded soldier who was insane and pinned to the ground by said genius.

Still, there it was. Sherlock was insecure, and he needed John to give in.

And John always gave in when Sherlock needed something from him.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," said John. "Of course, I belong to you. I've always belonged to you." Sherlock smiled beatifically and pulled John forward by his wrists. The shorter blond sat up stiffly but met Sherlock halfway in a painful, bruising kiss.

* * *

The force of Sherlock's embrace knocked the smaller man back to the ground. However, the detective's hand had wrapped around John's head and cushioned his fall. Their mouths grappled fiercely. Sherlock claimed John's lips, but John's tongue forced itself past Sherlock's defenses.

Sherlock needed to possess his blogger. It was the only way to quell his crushing fear of losing John. Anyway, he had to control his blogger in order to protect him, at least until John gave up his dangerous fantasies. And he wanted John; he craved John like a drug.

He began with an attack on John's mouth. Sherlock had witnessed his errant blogger kissing that O'Brien woman. Sherlock would stake his claim by leaving his mark where that military minx had been. The detective delicately bit down on JOhn's lip, then sucked on it hard. He swept his tongue over John's lips and into his mouth, carefully removing any O'Brien taint.

He moved on to John's raspy chin. Biting and kissing along his jaw, hungry for John. Determined to claim all of the soldier.

At the best of times, Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. Tonight he was a force of nature. John Watson, to his surprise, had lost their earlier wrestling match, and he quickly lost any sense of control now. That was fine. That wasn't surrender, per se; that was just handing the controls over to the pilot. Yeah, Sherlock can be the pilot for a while, thought John. He turned his head so that Sherlock could more easily reach that spot right below his ear...After all, John had fought to stay in control throughout the tailspin that was his recent life. It had not turned out well. John was more than happy to turn the controls over to the one man he still trusted.

The tempest that was Sherlock, buffeted John with kisses, love bites and by grinding himself into John's groin. Forgetting himself entirely, John moaned loudly.

"Shhhh, John," murmured Sherlock, although he enjoyed making John moan and cry out with the passion that only Sherlock could make John feel. The detective took his lips off what he hoped would be a massive, purple bruise on John's neck. A very visible and hopefully tender reminder of his ownership. He then realized that John was struggling to sit up, frantic even.

"You are not going anywhere, John Watson," he growled.

"Dammit, Sherlock," gasped John, sitting awkwardly with a six-foot tall man in his lap. "Just let me up for a second. I'm too hot. I can't fucking breath! It's getting so fucking hot out here."

Oh, well, of course John was too hot in that old woolen jumper. The ambient temperature had to be over 30° C.* The question was, why was John wearing a jumper in the middle of summer in the first place?

John had freed his right arm but was tugging futilely at the left and grimacing in pain. He grunted, cursed and tore at the jumper.

"Alright, John. Stop!" said the consulting detective, holding John's wrists. "Stop fighting, I'll get it off you. Idiot!" He softened the insult by placing a kiss on John's hot, sweaty forehead. He then carefully extracted John's left arm, cognizant of his soldier's wounds. John ripped the musty old jumper over his head and then pulled off his tee, which was soaked with sweat.

Freed from his hot, binding clothes, he clutched his handsome boyfriend. He was now in position to kiss Sherlock's long white neck.

"Honestly John, what were you thinking? Wearing a wool jumper in this heat?" asked Sherlock extending his neck for John's attentions as his fingers lightly drew circles over John's slick back.

"I was too cold b'fore. It was freezin'. Hammtomjumm" muttered John into the vee where Sherlock's shirt opened. "So damm'd cold," he added between kisses.

John raised his eyes to Sherlock's face, as he unbuttoned the detective's shirt. "But you're not cold, you're hot, so goddam, fucking hot," John growled, sending waves of heat into Sherlock's groin.

John leaned forward to continue kissing all of that newly exposed skin and his eyes narrowed under his suddenly lowered brows.

"What…What the fuck is that on your chest?" John snarled harshly. He gently touched the partially healed cut that sliced across Sherlock's pale chest.

"A knife wound!" the doctor deduced before the consulting detective could respond. "Of course it is. And when exactly were you planning on telling me about this, Sherlock Holmes? How did this happen! Christ almighty! Look at these sutures! Who, the fuck, put in these stitches. My foster mum could've done a better job. You better fucking explain this right now, Sherlock fucking Holmes!"

Sherlock's mind flew, analyzing the various permutations. There were essentially three choices. One, lie about it and he could still enjoy coitus with John. But John would eventually find out the truth and then feel hurt and betrayed. Bad fucking idea. Two, tell the truth and have a long and involved discussion. John will feel angry, and then somehow, John will take the blame and end up feeling guilty and hurt. Not a great choice either. Plus the chances for coitus tonight would be less than 15%. Three, fuck the living daylights out of John Watson first, and then, while John is in his delightful, cuddly, post-coital haze, confess everything. Much fucking better. The discussion will be much shorter and much less painful for everyone, when John is flooded with endorphins. Sherlock launched his attack immediately.

* * *

John was confused yet again; one minute he was sitting up. He was Captain John Watson, angrily demanding answers, as was his right. Then suddenly, he lying in the dirt and being ravished by a sex-crazed consulting detective. John's trousers had been pulled down… right here in public. Well, in the middle of a field…or a meadow…and…fuck… and then...and then, well, it was all fine, Sherlock had him well in hand. Fuck, it felt so good.

John stretched and arched his back, feeling those long, clever fingers wrapped around him. Oh God, John was already lost in sensation.

Now Sherlock's hot lips surrounded him and that hot tongue, lapped up and down his length.

"John," said those hot lips, vibrating on his throbbing shaft, "John if you don't mind, I'd rather fuck your brains out right now. Hmmm?" Sherlock finished by taking John in his mouth and humming. John squirmed below him. John was such a beautiful mess already, and I've barely even started, thought Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his face up. He stroked John with one hand, while slowly, teasingly undoing his own belt. "Very well, John Watson. We can have our discussion later," he bent down and circled John's member with his tongue. "That works for me, John." He sucked on John, while running his hand up and down. He let his lover pop out of his mouth, "Is that alright... with you, John?" he asked with wide-eyed innocence.

John nodded; at least he thought he nodded. He desperately wanted more. Sherlock unzipped his trousers and freed himself, stroking his arousal in front of the dazed blond, "What was that John? I didn't quite hear you."

"Ohhhh…God…yeesss! It's f, fine…good," groaned John, ready to agree with anything that man said. He reached for Sherlock's straining member but his hand was batted aside.

"Patience, John," said Sherlock in full control. This was perfect. He could make John forget about those pesky questions, his irritating mission and in fact, forget about everyone and everything, except Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock would enjoy doing it. He stroked his blogger slowly.

Besides, John always loved it when Sherlock took control. And Sherlock loved it when he could control his blogger and give him the pleasure that no one else ever could. Sherlock settled back down onto John's legs, carefully avoiding any wounds.

The tall man gracefully bent over to recapture John with his mouth. His tongue slid up and down, laving John's erection, while pleasuring himself with his hand.

John was watching, rapt. Yes, thought the detective. He craved John's attention, like a drug, and now he had it.

Sherlock sat back up to play to his audience. He played with his own nipple, imaging John's mouth on it; with his other hand he stroked himself languorously. He felt John writhing underneath him, trying to thrust his twitching cock against the detective. He watched, as John became undone, and that's what made it feel so good.

Sherlock moaned at his own wonton attentions, and even more at John's reactions.

"Sherl!" groaned John, "Oh God, Sherl. Please, God please."

John reached out to grasp either his lover or himself, but Sherlock, smirking, snatched John's wrists easily in one long-fingered hand. The domineering brunet restrained his blogger and stroked himself. He moaned harshly in his deepest subterranean voice, because John got off on that sound. His blogger was gasping and squirming deliciously. John's face twisted, biting his lips.

It was really becoming too much for his poor little soldier. Oh God, it was too much for Sherlock.****************

The detective quickly bent back down to give John release, but John pulled away. "No! No not that. I want you. You, all of you, in me…"

Sherlock grimaced, "John, I don't have any lube. And I will not take the chance, any chance, that you will be hurt," said Sherlock decisively. Then the lanky detective bit his own lip, he had already hurt his boyfriend. He had hit his boyfriend, and that was a bit… no… it was a lot not good.

John struck while the detective was distracted. The army doctor pushed his tormentor to the side and scrambled to his knees; no easy feat with his trousers pulled down around his ankles. He crawled awkwardly to his pack.

Balm, John had the balm that O'Brien had 'acquired' for burns and chapped lips. A delightful, soft, oily and really quite tasty balm made from almond oil, honey, and balm equals lube, decided Doctor Watson with determination. John dug frantically in the front mesh pocket for the jar. He hoped it would be enough. It had to be enough.

Sherlock was drawn irresistibly, by those luscious, swaying cheeks that John unwittingly presented as he crawled to his rucksack.

Or maybe his blogger had done it intentionally. Ohhh, yes, perhaps John did do it on purpose. That was indescribably hot.

"You did that on purpose John Watson," he said, his voice was distant thunder rumbling in the foothills of the Himalayas.

When the thunder echoed in his chest, John froze, his heart beating wildly. For a moment he was uncertain; was the detective displeased with John's rather crude attempt at seduction? The kneeling blond glanced behind him to see the detective stalking him, with a feral grin on his face. Shite, John needed that balm right now.

Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the view before kneeling behind his blogger and kneading John's tempting cheeks. He placed a few judicious kisses and bites on each globe. Next, Sherlock draped himself over the kneeling army doctor and planted wet sloppy kisses along his spine, humming his appreciation.

The silvered moon illuminated his blogger and he was distressed again, as he tallied his soldier's battle damage. There were week-old bruises and a large hematoma (which had better not mean a broken rib), and he noted the newer abrasions and contusions (Fuck, fuck, fuck, those were _fresh._ Sherlock caused those He did that to John. He hurt John. Never, NEVER, let that happen again. Memos to that effect were instantly installed all around the John Watson wing of Sherlock's mind palace.)

John managed to flip around, even though his ankles were hopelessly tangled in his filthy trousers, once more knocking the consulting detective aside. "Balm," John announced exultantly. He proudly presented the jar to Sherlock, who sat up rubbing his elbow.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering the so-called balm. "John, I'm not quite sure that…"

"Well, I_ am_ sure," snapped Doctor Watson, his mind made up. "I'm damned sure, and I'm the damn doctor." John opened the jar, but then Sherlock snatched the balm out of his hands. He sniffed it and rubbed a bit between his fingers. Almond oil, cocoa butter and...bees wax, determined the genius. In fact, it should suffice. From the corner of his eyes, he glanced at his nearly nude lover, whose hair gleamed with silver highlights under the moon. And his John looked beautiful.

"Very well, Doctor. Shoes and trousers off," John obeyed with alacrity, he struggled to untie boots and detangle his kameez with eager hands. Sherlock was more than happy to assist.

The tall man was already naked except for his unbuttoned shirt. His engorged member summoned the blond urgently. John went to reach for it but Sherlock grabbed his hand pulling John to his feet. Sherlock led his blogger into deeper brush, throwing down a threadbare blanket, which he had found in John's pack. Hopefully the bushes would give his John some privacy, and the blanket on top of the grass should provide some cushioning for his stunning little blogger when Sherlock fucked him into the ground.

He quickly had John on his back, the soldier's right hand combed through Sherlock's dark, sweaty curls, while the detective lavished kisses up John's inner thigh. John's hand instinctively moved to touch himself, but a large hand firmly guided his arm to the side.

"No John. I want you to wait," demanded Sherlock, asserting control again.

John's hand scrabbled in the grass, and then he moaned Sherlock's name when his lover finally used the balm to slowly and thoroughly open his lover. The steady, methodically circling fingers were driving John mad.

"God Sherlock, what are you waiting for? Just do it!" demanded the soldier grinding down onto Sherlock's fingers.

"Fuck, John. You have to give me a fucking minute," said Sherlock a bit breathlessly. "I won't risk hurting you, you bug."

John stopped moving, "Fuck it, Sherlock! Will you stop cursing! It's distracting when you get it wrong," John gasped as those talented fingers stretched and teased. "And, and it's bugger, not bug." John bit his lip, panting breathlessly. "You just called me a bug, for fucks sake."

"John, under the circumstances, _I_ would clearly be the bugger and _you_ would be the bug or possibly the buggee," said Sherlock seriously; he persisted in his endeavor to open his bug. His bug shuddered and cried out when Sherlock, who was quite clearly the bugger, successfully hit his little blond bug's sweet spot.

"Besides John," said Sherlock continuing his dissertation, "you've been swearing constantly, all night long; and it seems only fucking fair that I be allowed to swear as well, especially when we are actually fucking."

John could only groan in answer. His incredibly handsome lover's voice was too fucking hot, even when he said irritating things. Sherlock's criminally clever fingers massaged John's prostate, and the doctor was unable to articulate any response, other than to sob Sherlock's name again and again.

Clearly, John was not up for further discussion, so Sherlock elected to withdraw his fingers and drive home his point another way.

Even with his mind short-circuited, the gasping soldier knew what was coming, and he wanted it. Oh fuck, he wanted it bad. He raised his legs, wrapping them around his boyfriend's thin waist. John completely forgot the point of their discussion when his partner entered him.

Sherlock's started out maddeningly slow and gentle, careful not to injure his beautiful boyfriend. He gradually filled his lover and then waited to be sure that John was ready. All the while John moaned and squirmed so delectably. Well, thought Sherlock, it would appear that John was, indeed, ready. The taller man slowly, oh so slowly pulled back and then gently pushed forward. John writhed and drove his hips forward, cursing yet again.

Sherlock was killing him, thought John. John looked up at the star-filled sky and felt like he might fall. Only the tortuous, teasing incursions deep into his body kept him tied to the earth. And each thrust was too much and yet they were so slow and gentle that they would never be enough. Sherlock Holmes was killing him with sex, because John was never going to come, and John would die. The blond twisted and drove himself down on his lover's cock. He heard himself cry out as it hit his gland. Oh God, Oh God...John was going to come without being touched. He was going to start screaming. He beat his fist on Sherlock's broad shoulder with one hand and tugged on a bony hip with his other. John was going TO DIE, if Sherlock didn't shag him NOW.

"Sherlock, please," begged John. "Just get on with it…God faster...Please…God. Sherl...fuck me, now."

The World's Only Consulting Detective smirked. His little blond bug had never been so hot, so desperate and so fucking hard. His John had never begged so delightfully. It made the detective ache with a fierce, burning desire and that most dangerous emotion, love.

Oh John, was truly gorgeous like this. He clearly deserved a reward. Sherlock pulled back from his frantic lover and then snapped his hips, thrusting deeply. The result was electrifying. Sherlock began to piston in earnest.

"Amazing…bril..brilli-ant... fucking...brill-i-ant," chanted John with each thrust.

The tall detective gave a deep growl that reverberated in John's chest. With a bruising grip, Sherlock pulled John closer with each punishing attack.

"Fuck!" shouted the army doctor. Proving Sherlock's point about the usefulness of profanity during coitus.

Each deliberate thrust hit John's prostate now. Each thrust forced a groan or expletive from John's gaping mouth "Fuck… !... SHerl..FU…oaahhh.. ohm'godohm'god… fuck YES…Shite, shite SHITE!." Those strong hands gripped his hips painfully, controlling him. And it was good; it was too good. "OHMYGOD…Fuuuck!"

John bit down on his hand, trying not to shriek. He clenched his other fist into Sherlock's skin, bruising pale flesh.

John was not going to last long now. Not when Sherlock was finally fucking John's brains out.

The soldier felt the world growing distant as his brains drained away; John's universe reduced to the pale man hammering him into oblivion.

John's smell, his cries, the sight of him thrashing in ecstasy and most of all the scorching feel of him clenching around Sherlock brought the tall man to the precipice.

Sherlock's finely calibrated mind began shutting down. All non-essential functions were put on hold. His focus was on his cock, pounding into John's hot, tight hole and on the writhing, moaning mess of a man whose incoherent babbling demanded that Sherlock finish him off. Yes, time to finish his little blond blogger off.

One hand clamped down even harder on John's hip; the other wrapped around his partner's leaking cock. He stroked John in time with his own pounding thrusts.

John closed his eyes, gasping and fucking Sherlock's hand. He keened as he tried to thrust into Sherlock's hand and grind down on Sherlock's cock at the same time.

Sherlock stroked faster, his clever fingers twisting around the leaking head. He thrust hard and deep into his doctor striking his sweet spot. Sherlock knew his John was close, so close, and his John could never resist Sherlock's voice.

"Now, John," he thundered in his deepest voice. "Come for me now."

The shock waves spread; they reached deep into John, setting off his eruption. Cum exploded over both their chests. John screamed out around his own fist, his ragged voice emptying into the vast night sky. Sherlock milked John's orgasm as his own blood pooled and boiled in the caldera of his groin. Sherlock began to tremble and gasp; he loosed his hold on John's cock.

Both hands clutched John's hips. John had never been so hot and Sherlock had never been so deep. Sherlock drove in hard and erratically. And all of his nerves fired at once, as he spent himself in the hot, molten core of John Watson.

* * *

They lay entangled and drained; John was floating up with the stars now, basking in the afterglow of some tectonic explosion. He vaguely remembered Sherlock insisting that they get at least partly redressed. Hmm, Sherlock might have actually dressed John, well put John's trousers on for him. Umm, that should be embarrassing. A bit, maybe? He was dimly aware that his lover going on about Bangkok and airplanes and…And how the hell did Sherlock even have the energy to talk about anything they just shared the World's Greatest Fuck Ever? The Greatest Fuck Ever...John drifted in between the stars and thought about how Sherlock hands had played him like a violin and his mouth, that sinful mouth...

With his adorable little bug drifting on the tides of a truly impressive endorphin release, Sherlock eagerly told John everything. He talked about tracking John to Bangkok and about his dinner date with Ms Adler. (Sherlock had learned not to call The Woman, 'The Woman', in front of John Watson, not even when John was dazed and filled with endorphins.) He even told John the truth about finding and eliminating Dimitri and Victor. He admitted that he had been slightly wounded in brief little altercation with a bodyguard (This was potentially the most dangerous part of the confession; John had a tendency to overreact when Sherlock received the occasional scratch.) And indeed, John roused enough to try to focus his eyes on Sherlock. However his blogger still seemed pleasantly unfocused after their magnificent bout of love-making (Yes, Sherlock felt that that was exactly the right term for what he shared with his John, love-making.) Sherlock quickly finished his explanation, assuring John that there was nothing to the tiny, little scratch and more importantly, assuring his boyfriend (lover? partner? bug?) that John was safe from the Russian now.

It took John a few moments to assimilate the information, it was difficult to do this without a brain, after all. He also had to make his eyes focus on his really, really beautiful boyfriend who lounged next to John in his sexy unbuttoned shirt and those obscenely tight pants. John drifted for a few more moments. But Sherlock had been in danger and that was never okay.

"Sherlock," muttered John, "that was, that was…" What was it again? John vaguely tried to conjure up some outrage or…something besides this exhausted euphoria. But John was really very tired (almost no sleep for days, a week?) and very, very sated (World's Greatest Fuck, Ever!). John really couldn't concentrate, because Sherlock had actually fucked John's brains right out of him; he really had. John Watson was officially brainless. Still, he should try…to…think.

Dumb.

Dumb was a good word. What Sherlock did was dumb. But it was very brave too. Kinda hot. "Sherl, that was... dumb. It was, um, hot, I mean brave but very hot too. But, well, still dumb. Yeah, dumb cause you could'a gott'n umm,arrested and hurt. You did get hurt and you could'a gotten more hurt, I mean…worse than that cut." John raised a hand and touched Sherlock's chest softly. "You, um, you, you're a dumb, brave …thingy. And you're hot. Fucking hot"

John yawned, and his mind wandered. It was too much work to be angry; b'sides, Sherlock was running his long fingers up and down John's chest. It felt nice. Anyway, Sherl was fine, and he was hot. It was all fine.

"Yes, John," agreed the detective who lay on his side, smiling smugly.

John curled his tired, limp body close into to his tall lover. He felt safe next to the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Sherlock had fucked most, but not _all,_ of John's brains out. A tiny bit of his mind still worked, and the soldier knew he really wasn't safe. Of course, he and Sherlock weren't really safe.

'Lets face it' said John's little inner soldier, sprawling on Persian rugs and silk pillows. Honestly, his inner soldier looked as debauched as John felt. The half-naked inner soldier got up, repeating himself. 'Lets face it, John Watson is a certifiable lunatic who's haunted by imaginary ghosts. He's roaming the Punjab, carrying illegal arms in search of his old army mate, who's probably about to be kidnapped by the CIA. Meanwhile, he still has to find those WMD's while the CIA hunts for them too. No John isn't safe. And since Sherlock was with him, Sherlock isn't safe either.'

It was a problem, but John felt safe. Good enough for now. John rudely slammed the door shut, hiding his inner soldier away for now. Sherl was here and kissing him gently and speaking softly in his ear, using that _voice_. And Sherlock said they were safe. Good enough for me, thought John Watson

Besides, Micky, who was the only hallucinatory ghost that he trusted anymore, had said he would stand guard. Micky had thoughtfully waited until Sherlock was done fucking John's brains out. He politely waited while Sherlock helped John pull his trousers on (although John would have figured it out himself, eventually). Then the imaginary specter gave his report and offered to take watch. Micky did not comment on his friend's debauched state, although a smirk certainly tugged at his slightly glowing lips. John had not given a flying fuck.

John sighed happily, tucking his head against Sherlock's shoulder and went to sleep.

Sherlock smirked, satisfied and superior. His seduction of John Watson had succeeded beautifully. John forgot all about his hallucinations. Just as important, John had accepted Sherlock's explanation of the dinner date with The Woman, his assassination of Dimitri and Victor Trevor and that tiny, little scratch on his chest. No angry discussions, no John storming about. Sherlock would have to remember to thoroughly fuck John before he had to confess things in the future.

And on top of it all, Sherlock had been able to enjoy the best shag of his life. He got to fuck John's brains out, right here, in the open, where any one could have seen them. God, he almost got hard again just thinking about it.

Judging from John's response, it had been pretty fucking good for him too. He'd blacked out for a few moments from the force of his orgasm. John had been so overcome, that Sherlock had been forced to help John pull his trousers back on. Sherlock congratulated himself yet again.

As the dawn approached, there was just a bit more light illuminating the desolate brush and the few scattered trees,. There was a hint of violet in the east, below the rich indigo of the sky. Sherlock stroked his lover's hair. Just look at him, lying there snoring softly, thoroughly debouched by the World's Only Consulting Detective. Fuck yes indeed!

Sherlock was getting the hang of these expletives. Especially, that versatile word, fuck. He, fucking Sherlock Holmes, had fucking fucked the fucking brains out of his fucking partner. Oh dear, fuck yes.

Wait, that didn't sound right. First of all, he and John had made love, incredible fucking love. Second, John was too special to be a partner, even a fucking partner. Fuck. This required further fucking thought. Sherlock laid with his arm cast protectively over John's chest, and he fell asleep while attempting to come up with the appropriate fucking term to describe his fucking relationship with John Hamish Watson.

**A/N**

*30C=86°F

I apologize for the ridiculous overuse of the expletive, fuck. I have no excuse…except to blame John and Sherlock who were behaving immaturely and having way too much fun with the fucking word. (I promise the next chapter will not have so many fu…, I mean, nasty swear words.) (Sorry ;p)

Please note, I am unable to proof read this ever again. Any mistakes are my own and will just have to stay there. Nevertheless, I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammatical errors that may remain. Also, I always, always type JOhn instead of John, and while I tried to fix them all, I bet some are still hiding in this overly-long chapter. So again, apologies. (I bet you thought I was going to blame John or Sherlock again, didn't you?)

Please let me know if any glaring errors remain, because I'll happily fix them. Just don't ask me to proof read this ever again. I beg you.

**Thank you** to everyone who has stuck with this overlong fic. I know there have been some long delays and there have been some strange plot twists. At least we have John and Sherlock back together again.

**(Rant begins here)** Which is better than what we'll probably get with Season 3. I dread John spending time playing kissy-face with Mary while Sherlock goes out looking all cool and mysterious with his cheekbones and raised coat collar, having fun solving cases with out his blogger. And what is 221b going to be without both John and SHerlock (and of course Mrs. Hudson). BORING. It will be JUST NOT RIGHT!

Sorry, I read these teasers and hear about Mary Morstan and….

Sorry, I am so sorry. Never mind. We'll all watch Season 3 and love it, IN SPITE of Mary.**(Rant ends here.)**

So, once again, **thank you** for reading this fic.

**Special thanks to those of you who were so kind and reviewed my story. Your reviews are like gold to me. Thank you to InuChimera7410, dana-san, Wicked Winter, EJ12212012, I'm Nova, Quiet Time, power0girl, SamuelE8688, Johnlocked86, 1yellowfish.**

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK. But if I did, there would be NO MARY MORSTAN in Season 3, and there would be _**JOHNLOCK. So there!**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Warnings**-None? Except to remind you that this is M-rated so some mildly M-rated stuff might pop up at any time. Right? I said RIGHT? I can't hear you!

Oh wait, I can never hear you. We all message one another on electronic devices, and of course that doesn't make much noise. Silly me.

Okay, Chapter 11 then; here goes…

**Chapter 11**

Ahsan blinked his eyes and saw nothing. Nothing at all…Oh my God, he thought, I'm blind. His hands scrabbled in cool dirt and felt some hard, sharp little stones. He also noticed that his head was resting on a nice, warm, soft pillow, a pillow that moved just a little on its own.

Ahsan tried to sit but was pressed back down with a firm but gentle hand on his chest.

"Lie still, Ahsan," said Mary Morstan quietly.

He was relieved beyond words to hear Mary's voice. Actually, Ahsan was never truly beyond words.

"Oh my God, Mary Morstan!" Ahsan cried out, "I am so very glad to hear your most beautiful voice, but however I am so sad to say that I think that I am blind. I have been made blind in my life's prime!"

"Oh no, Ahsan," said Mary, running her fingertips over his forehead. "You aren't blind; it's just dark, pitch black. We're at the bottom of an old well or something."

Ahsan was relieved beyond words to hear that he was not blind.

He remained silent, savoring his relief, for nearly half a minute. "I do not remember any wells. I remember looking for Mitchell to help speed the rescue for poor John Watson, who was clumsily dropped by his not very able assistant Whats-Her-Name O'Brien. I would never have dropped John Watson. And so then, as I was saying, I was walking in the dark with my little tiny LED flashlight on a key chain that John Watson gave me, because he warned me to always have a flash light ready for when you get trapped in the dark, which he says happens soon enough and without warning. He is so very wise because, look, here it is happening. So then next there is nothing. There is a time when I remember nothing and that is when I must have lost my key chain and the handy little light too, which is too bad because we could surely use the LED light. Then I am remembering waking up and thinking that I was blind and I am also wondering what happened and how did you find me?"

"Well, I don't know what happened to you," said Mary. "I came to look for you when you didn't come back. The others were busy trying to eaves drop on John and Holmes. John, by the way, has been acting very odd. I'm afraid that his mind has snapped from the trauma…"

"Oh no, I disagree. I disagree most very strongly," insisted the younger man. "He will have a very good reason for acting this way. Or…or it will be a temporary little problem. He has certainly not snapped. He will find the caches and lead us to treasure and the WMD's…"

"Alright, fine! He will lead us to the WMD's and treasure," agreed Mary, hoping to calm the excitable young man whose head rested in her lap. "Alright. Anyway, I was looking for you when I found a deep hole. I looked down, and I was shocked to see you lying in a heap at the bottom." She took a deep breath, "Actually, for a minute I thought you were dead." Ahsan took one of her hands in his and held hit to his lips.

"Anyway, that's when someone pushed me and I fell in here, right on top of you," she said, smiling just a bit as he kissed her hand like some 18th century dandy. "You woke up as soon as I smashed into you. You woke up but were still really out of it, as if you were delirious. You were mumbling in several languages, all mixed up together. You climbed into my lap and fell back asleep. That was almost an hour ago."

"An hour ago! Oh my God, we have to get out now," said Ahsan sitting up. He groaned and held his head. Sitting was not the best idea. It made his head hurt, and it made him dizzy.

The smell in the pit made him feel sick to his stomach too. The dry, musty smell of this God-forsaken pit reminded him of his old childhood home, actually, it reminded him of the little shelter where his grandfather kept the goats. As a small boy, Ahsan had to help tend the goats and clean their stinky hut. To this day, Ahsan hated goats, and so he hated the dusty, dirty smell that reminded him of the goat pens. At least the pit did not actually smell like stupid, bloody goats.

"Ahsan, you should lie back down. I am sure you have a concussion," said Mary, as the young man leaned against the dirt wall. "I'd have worried about your neck, but it must be it's okay since you've been moving it ever since I dropped in on you."

Ahsan snorted at her joke. Then he tried to think like a soldier would. In fact, what would John Watson do? He'd escape, that's what he'd do. "We most definitely need to escape, Mary Morstan," said Ahsan. "Yes, we need to escape, and then warn John Watson and the others."

"Okay, but think about it Ahsan, what if one of the others did this?" asked Mary. Her leg moved to rest against Ahsan's leg, sharing comfort against the darkness pressing in around them. "I know John was in that bunker when you disappeared, so he's in the clear. Everyone else was coming and going; it could have been anyone of them. Of course, it could have been someone else entirely. It could be that Jones finally caught up with us. It could be some other interested party. Hell, maybe it was a farmer who assumed we were trespassing. What I'm getting at is, I don't know who we can trust."

"Well, we will certainly trust each other, and it certainly wasn't John Watson," said Ahsan emphatically. "And it wasn't Sherlock Holmes either; this isn't his modus operationed."

"I would have to agree, this isn't the detective's modus operandi," corrected Mary gently. "But this still leaves us with a mystery. Hopefully Mr. Holmes can solve it quickly. So, how are we going to get out."

"Yes but can we climb out? I am thinking that there is no ladder or you would have already climbed out to get help. How far down are we?" asked Ahsan. "Do you have any light? Like I said, I lost my little flashlight and my keys. And this is fine. My mother has probably changed all the locks again, because she will not trust them with me all gone. You know, John Watson always said to carry extra pocket torches and I didn't; he calls them pocket torches. That is funny, no? Torches, which to me makes it sound like he wants to set everything on fire." Ahsan chuckled. "I should have listened better. John Watson was so right. Always carry a couple of flashlights; that is always to be my motto now. And did you try your cell phone? Sherlock Holmes told me…"

"I take it you're feeling a little better," interrupted Mary drily. "To try to answer your questions, the hole isn't that deep, maybe eight feet? But there is no ladder. I have no 'pocket torch', which really pisses me off. I tried my phone and your phone, but I can't get any signal. The batteries on both are less than half strength, so I don't want to waste them."

She handed Ahsan his phone, and he immediately turned it on for the light. The small pit was too narrow for him to fully stretch out. Dirt walls loomed overhead, and a cover had been placed on top. He scanned the floor once, to make sure no snakes were lurking in the shadows; then he pocketed his cell phone.

"I am not so sure that this is a well. It is very dry. I guess maybe some could have started to dig a well and then gave up on it. Or maybe… maybe it is a trap. Maybe it is a tiger trap. It is too small for an elephant trap. I am thinking tiger…"

"Really Ahsan, I don't think tigers and elephants wander around here very much. And no I do not think it's a trap for mules or oxen either," snapped Mary. "Frankly I don't care what it is. I just want out." She rubbed her wrist, which was probably sprained and ignored the other cuts and bruises caused when that mystery person had pushed her in the pit. And why was there an eight-foot deep hole just lying around in the dark where people could fall in? Maybe Ahsan had just accidentally fallen in, but she hadn't fallen. She was pushed.

The petite CIA agent shook her head in the dark, blowing hair off of her face with a puff of air. At least her injuries were minimal, unlike Ahsan...

"Ahsan," she asked, "aside from your head, which has a nice goose egg on the back, are you hurt anywhere else? You did fall quite a ways, and then I fell on you too."

"Oh no. I am fine. Just a little stiff," said the young man, stretching carefully. "Oh. Oh my God, I get it. Goose egg, that is the bump on my head. Very good, Mary Morstan. I shall remember goose eggs. Yes. But no, I am not showing injuries from the fall except the goose egg. Also, I am thinking since I have a goose egg, you should kiss me, to make me feel better. It is a custom. "

Mary rose to her knees crawling forward. She felt along the grimy wall until she found the injured man's hand reaching out and then pulling her in. She kissed him chastely on his head. However, he tugged the small agent into his lap and kissed first her eyes, then her nose and then moved down to her mouth.

"Oh see, this is more comfortable Mary Morstan. Much better, now we can stay warmer," he said in between kisses.

Mary returned his kisses eagerly, parting her lips so he could kiss more deeply. Her arms stretched around his neck to hold his head carefully. "Oh yes, this is much warmer, Ahsan," she murmured.

But really, she thought, it was getting way too warm. This was neither the time nor the place for her to get it on with Ahsan Ghulam, handsome though he might be.

"But, like you said, Ahsan, we really need to think about getting out," she kissed his rough cheek and then pulled back. "I had considered digging holes in the wall, like steps," said the CIA agent, "but that will take so long." She rested against the young man's chest as she considered, his arm felt warm and comforting around her shoulder. She ran his hair through her fingers and hummed.

"Oh yes, yes we need to escape, Mary Morstan," agreed Ahsan. "But, I do not think that we should be digging hand-holding-holes in the wall unless we are desperate. I do not _think_ the wall would collapse, but then again it might collapse. I am not trusting this dirt to not collapse," said Ahsan. "But, I think I could hold you. You are very small. You could stand on my shoulders and maybe reach the cover, yes?"

"Maybe," replied Mary uncertainly. Unhappily, she did not have any better ideas. "Okay, let's start by having you try to stand up first."

Ahsan was unsteady for a moment and Mary put her arms around his waist. He took the opportunity to pin her lightly against the wall and kiss her deeply and thoroughly again.

When they came up for air, she pulled back.

"You taste funny," she said.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry…" said the mortified young man.

"No not…I mean you smell and taste sweet and…" Mary drew in a sharp breath. And put a warm hand to his lips. "I've been smelling it on you all along! I was just too stupid to notice. Thank God Adler and Holmes aren't here; heck, they'd have a field day bitching about how I'm an idiot and…well never mind. Sweetheart, you were drugged. After they hit you they used chloroform or something. They must not have knocked you out fully when they beat you over your head, and then they used the drugs. Those bastards, they could have killed you. I'm going to find out who did this, and they will pay," said Mary firmly, as she slowly stood in the dark.

Ahsan was impressed and, in fact, aroused by her aggressive stance. He was very attracted to the short, pretty woman who carried a gun and fought like a man. She was probably as good a fighter as any man alive excepting John Watson and maybe Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson was a skilled gunman and most very brave, and Sherlock Holmes was a very _ruthless_ man. Ahsan shuddered remembering when the consulting detective killed Dimitri the Russian and his evil henchman, including that bloody bastard Victor Trevor, who deserved to die for kidnapping and torturing John Watson.

And it was still awful to remember that he, Ahsan Ghulam, had helped in the ante vigilish killings. Oh my God, he had even killed one of the evil henchmans himself. Oh my God, yes, that Sherlock Holmes was a natural-born killer. He was maybe even more dangerous than Captain John Watson. It was good that John Watson was back to keep that dangerous detective under control. But still, Mary Morstan was much prettier than either John Watson or Sherlock Holmes. He liked kissing Mary Morstan and did not want to kiss John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Oh my God, Mary Morstan was very too much exciting.

"Well, how are you feeling, Ahsan," asked Mary. "Any dizziness?"

"Oh no, I am feeling fine," he answered. "And not dizzy."

Ahsan was glad that the dark hid his arousal. He turned away from the CIA agent, as if he developed a sudden need to examine the wall with his hands.

"Yes, this wall is crumbly," said Ahsan after a few moments exploration. "I think we shall not be digging in it. I think it might collapse and bury us to death. And I am certainly feeling better. I am guessing the drug is wearing off, and I also am guessing that I do not have a concussion. I will tell you what, Mary Morstan. I do not like drugs, and I shall also be happy to make this person, who did this, pay. I am thinking it is Adler. I do not like Adler."

"You always want to blame Irene Adler for everything," said Mary with a sigh of exasperation. "We'll worry about her later. Let's try your plan; I'll climb up on your shoulder, okay? Just tell me if you feel dizzy, or if anything hurts."

Ahsan stooped to help Mary clamber on to his back. She crawled up to his shoulders as he braced himself against the curved wall. The petite woman began to slowly pull herself to crouch and then to a stand on the young man's sturdy shoulders. Dirt and pebbles fell on his head as she dug her fingers into the wall to catch her balance. Ahsan shifted minutely, and she swayed, leaning into the grainy dirt wall. Mary slowly reached up in the dark, her fingers brushed against the rough wooden barrier to their under-ground prison cell. Ahsan gripped one of her legs to steady her, he breathed heavily with the effort.

Dammit! She was too short to move the obstruction. Mary Morstan groaned in frustration and pounded the barrier and then the side of the wall with her fist, showering Ahsan with dirt and a few choice curses too.

* * *

"You're not the boss, Lestrade!" growled Mitchell, scowling in the dark.

"I'm not trying to be the boss," Greg Lestrade growled through gritted teeth. "All I'm saying is that we should stick together since we've already lost half of our bloody team. It's dangerous; anyone could be out there in the dark. Y'know?"

"The danger was already here with us," said O'Brien darkly. "I knew we shouldn't trust that Sherlock Holmes. He has a long history of manipulating and using John. John will barely talk about it, but I can read through the lines. Hell the whole world knows about that stunt where Holmes faked his death. And now he's run off with John, so he can take advantage of him. Probably, he thinks he'll be the big savior and find those weapons and then give no credit to John..."

"My dear, it's obvious that you hold a tendre for Doctor Watson," said Irene with a hard edge to her voice, "but you are wasting your time if you think John will choose you. You should know that Sherlock's stunt was to protect the doctor. I know what Sherlock likes, and I know that Sherlock will not do anything that would hurt John Watson."

"You don't know what the hell you are talking about, Irene," snapped Alisa. "I am well aware that John is 'devoted' to that Holmes man, and I'm not trying to get into John's pants. Oh don't make that face; that's what you're implying. The point I'm trying to make is about Holmes…"

"Ladies, this is not helping…" began Lestrade.

"Oh, no you don't! Don't you go patronizing me, Inspector Clouseau," said O'Brien turning her dark, glaring eyes on Lestrade. Then her head whipped back around. "And just where do you think you're going Mitchell?" she asked the CIA agent, who seemed to be drifting off into the brush.

"Yes, Mr. Mitchell, you should certainly stay with the group. I agree with Mr. Lestrade," said Irene calmly. "We need to stay together. I know, why don't we _all_ follow Mr. Mitchell? It's as good a direction to search as any."

"I didn't ask for your help," said Mitchell, glaring over his shoulder at the svelte brunette. "You guys should search over beyond the other side of the farm-house. There's …"

"Wait!" said Lestrade shining a torch in the underbrush near where Mitchell stood with his muscular arms crossed over his chest. "Someone went this way earlier, definitely." He glanced suspiciously at the tall African-American. "I think we should follow the trail... In fact there's a couple sets of prints, two or maybe even three."

Lestrade led the way following the rough, indistinct trail. The Irene and Alisa followed, calling out for John or Mary or Ahsan or Sherlock.

Mitchell who now followed in the rear, who muttered irritably. In a few minutes, they came to an old well, flush with the ground, which was covered with a battered, rotting wooden door.

Someone was banging on the cover. Lestrade and O'Brien rushed over, lifting the lid together. Mary's pale, heart-shaped face peered up in the light from Irene's torch, she held her phone in her hand.

"Thank God!" said Mary breathlessly. "I thought no one would hear us."

Lestrade and Mitchell easily pulled Mary out by her arms, but Ahsan had to wait for Mitchell and O'Brien to get a rope. Lestrade firmly insisted on the buddy system, much to Mitchell's disgust. No one was to be left alone; everyone was to be on guard.

And everyone was suspect. He left that unsaid, but everyone knew it.

Aside from a mild headache, Ahsan had seemingly recovered from the effects of the drug, still he was forced to sit and rest with Irene and Mary. The others continued the search for the consulting detective and his doctor.

Ahsan rested by helping Mary to start a small fire, while Irene sat, apparently trying to look like royalty and otherwise contributed nothing to the effort aside from some useless advice. Mary and the young man heated water for ersatz tea, which Ahsan enjoyed immensely after Irene Adler turned her lip up at the weak, milkless, brew.

The other three stumbled in the dark for an hour, circling the farmhouse in an ever-widening spiral. They searched in vain for clues to Sherlock and John's disappearance or the attacks on Mary and Ahsan. In the dark, Lestrade tripped over a large branch and, falling, tore his Levi's and skinned his knee. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, while the other two seemed barely winded and annoyingly free of perspiration.

Admitting defeat, albeit temporarily, Lestrade led the way back to camp. All three were covered with scratches from thorns and bites from mosquitoes. Lestrade was sure he'd picked up a rare and probably fatal tropical disease from trudging through the mosquito infested brush. Still, that might be a blessing in disguise. At least he wouldn't have to listen to Mitchell and O'Brien bicker anymore.

Quietly seething with frustration and exhaustion, Alisa threw herself down at Irene's feet, leaning against her legs for support. Their earlier disagreement seemed forgotten, and O'Brien clearly chose to trust Adler over the others. She glowered first at Mitchell and then at Lestrade.

Mitchell glared at everyone suspiciously, while he tried to surreptitiously count his newly acquired money. They incompletely reunited team sipped half-heartedly at their weak tea and made plans to continue the search once it was daylight.

"Look, we know John didn't attack either Ahsan or Mary because he was clearly in the bunker at the time of the attacks," said O'Brien, continuing the so-called friendly discussion.

"I'm certain that Sherlock never left the entrance to the bunker until we let him down into the bunker, so that leaves him out too," asserted Gregory Lestrade.

"Well, that leaves you, me, Mitchell and O'Brien," said Irene candidly. "Although I suppose Mary could have attacked Mr. Ghulam and then dropped herself down in the well to give herself an alibi."

"That is stupid! She has a sprained wrist and also other injuries too," said Ahsan, leaping to Mary's defense. "How can you say she did this? You could just say I hit myself on the head making the goose egg and then rubbed drugs on my mouth to trick you all."

"Don't be ridiculous Ahsan," said Irene.

"Well you have made the ridiculous accusation against Mary Morstan," muttered Ahsan.

"Hey, we don't have any proof that any of us is responsible," said Lestrade, playing the part of parent to this unruly troop. He actually missed Donovan and Anderson, who were consummate professionals compared to this lot.

"I detest optimism, said Adler, "but perhaps things will look better in the day light. At least we'll have a better chance of finding some clues or trails. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock will deign to call us and let us know where he and John are. Of course, one never knows with him."

"Well, yeah, but he can't call if he's been injured or captured along with John," said Mary nibbling absently on an energy bar.

"If there was a fight, we should have found evidence," asserted Lestrade, as he rubbed his forehead again. He was pretty sure he'd have as many wrinkles as John after this little field trip. "Besides, John took his pack and that duffel. I think it's obvious that he scarpered off and Sherlock followed. Don't ask me why John would leave because I don't know. I think I'll punch 'em both next time I see them though."

"Even if they did take a hike, we still have to worry about who attacked these two lovebirds and why," the former American soldier looked with narrowed eyes at Ahsan and Mary who were unapologetically holding hands. "I know that I don't trust anyone here," said Alisa O'Brien flipping her hair behind her and earning an eye roll from Ahsan. She glared again at Lestrade and Mitchell, who were clearly her prime suspects.

"Well, on that cheerful note, why don't we all try to get some rest," said Mitchell rubbing his hands together.

"Oh yeah, like I'm going to close my eyes," said the surly ex-sergeant, "If I do, I'll probably never open 'em again. Sun'll be up soon enough. Soon as it's daylight, I'm searching for John." Irene prodded O'Brien with one foot.

"Okay, okay we'll search for John and that Sherlock. So...happy?" asked O'Brien sourly.

"Ecstatic, my dear," cooed Irene to the woman resting her against her legs.

Lestrade kept a wary eye on the group. As a matter of fact, the detective inspector took the watch, because he didn't know whom he could trust right now.

And really, Greg was too worried to sleep. He was very concerned for John and Sherlock. Christ, he thought, what if John was kidnapped again… or worse. If that happened, then he figured that both men would snap…or worse. The detective inspector Lestrade felt very helpless, here in a foreign country, with no backup and now no one he could trust. Using his satellite phone, he slowly tapped out a message to the British Government, trying to convey the depth of the problems they faced without sounding panicky. Even though, the older man was, in fact, feeling panicky.

The first pink fingers of dawn tugged at the star-filled velvet canopy overhead. Soon the fierce sun would follow, chasing the shadows away. Well blast that bloody, lovely sunrise and blast the stupid, pastoral landscape. Greg just wanted the sun up, so the team could continue their search for the missing soldier and his consulting detective. Of course once the sun was up it would be 800° C and then they'd all die of heat stroke...or worse.

Lestrade sent another text to the British Government; he didn't give a damn what time it was in London. If Greg was up and worried, then Mycroft bloody Holmes could be awake and worried too.

In the pallid early light, the birds and insects began tuning their instruments. The other members of the discordant team pretended to doze, while they chewed on the gristle of their doubts and their discontent.

**A/N** Surprise. I have nothing new to say since I haven't seen any new trailers or photos from SHERLOCK season 3.

Wait, I still have to say **THANK YOU VERY MUCH **for reading, following or favoriting this fic. I appreciate your continued interest.

**HUGE THANKS** go out to everyone who reviewed chapter 10, including power0girl, InuChimera7410, foxeeflame, Wicked Winter, SamuelE8688, I'm Nova, Quiet Time, EJ 12212012, 1yellowfish. You are all the best!

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK, and everyone already knows this so why do I have to repeat it? Repetition is dull.


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